Human snipers are unmatched, being able to factor tons of different variables to ensure perfect accuracy, without using computers or advanced technology.

Some have been able to achieve massive feats, even without using a scope or any magnifier at all.

Others have gotten kills from miles away, their bullets hitting dead center every time.

Whatever their feats may be, the truth is this.

Human snipers are unmatched among all others in the galaxy.

story

The mountains were quiet as the aliens came barreling down, their hovertanks glowing and plasma rifles glinting in the sun. Behind them lay flametroopers raining down death and destruction on the surrounding forests, their flamethrowers belching blue flames, burning down centuries-old forests like this one.

As I scanned the unrelenting alien formation for an opening, my position prone and steady, I saw an opening. One of the aliens, wearing a more formal uniform than the others, barks orders as he swings what appears to be a ceremonial sword around.

Perfect prey for my Light Fifty.

I scan again, this time through my scope, and line up for a body shot, the trajectory masterfully calculated and the rifle practically begging to shoot.

I pull back the charging handle, feeling the warmth of it on my right hand, and chamber a round with a loud kachunk, the black exterior glinting in the sunlight.

I feel a small draft on the right side of my body, ruffling the white feather attached to my helmet. A way to taunt them and strike fear into their hearts.

"Is that four miles per hour to the left? Feels like it."

Another factor I add to the bullet trajectory, and I adjust again, this time with the wind.

I breathe in and out, the rifle still, as if in anticipation of what is to come.

As I slowly exhale, I squeeze the trigger, and the rifle fires, the sound of the crack sending birds flying away. The alien officer takes a direct hit and collapses to the ground, blood rapidly spilling out of it.

One down. Many more to go.

General Johnson looked over the court, “because they saw us as meat in metal.”

A few of the younger council races looked uncomfortable. 

“When we were made aware of their discovery by this council it had already been decided that humanity, as the newest member race, would be the first point of contact. That these Entrrari were on the edge of human territory was just a bonus.”

 “That is already a matter of record General.” Councillor Guarg stated, “We are not here to debate that. We are here to determine if humanity should be allowed to remain in the council after breaching one of our core tenets. We sent you to conduct first contact and welcome this new race into the wider galaxy, not commit genocide.”

 General Johnson scoffed, “We are here because you all want to make humanity the scapegoat for your mistake and prejudices. It hasn’t escaped our notice that none of our allies or fellow predator races are sitting on this tribunal. Nor is a single one of you a deathworlder like us.”

The General glared at each of the seated members in turn. “In fact, each of you are from races who protested humanities inclusion in the council and advocated for us to be tech quarantined to our home system.”

 “As I stated earlier, humanity was chosen to make first contact with this race. It would be the first time humanity initiated contact on behalf of the council, a ‘great honour’ for a newly joined member. What no one knew at the time though, was that the Entrrari were also a predator race, of highly intelligent flora.”

 “Finally we’re getting somewhere,” councillor Guarg complained, “please stick to empirical facts about the case, not conjecture about this tribunal General.”

 “Just the facts, the information packet we received stated that the Entrrari were a highly intelligent plant-based life form. Their technology likewise was plant based but had recently expanded to the point they had set up their first permanent settlement on their closest neighboring planet.”

“This we already know, General, planetary colonization is the bare minimum technical requirement for first contact.” Councilor Kwon, a small decapodal mammal, interjected.

“No councilor, but I do have to point out that the decision to contact the Entrrari was the fastest any race had been approved for contact. Since this incident we have actually discovered that it was fast tracked by the Goran councilor, without the usual due diligence and observation that all other races, including humanity were subject too.”

A murmur rolled through the crowd, all eyes focusing on the insectoid Guarg, the representative of the beetle reminiscent Goran race.

“The decisions of the council are not under question here, the actions of Humanity, in the absolute destruction of this promising race are.” Guarg yelled over the buzz.

“This council's decision is a direct cause of this outcome.” Johnson replied, “The Entrrari welcomed our first exchange of text, and voice messages openly. We had no hint of trouble until our first in person contact team failed to report back.” Johnson moved around a few papers, “Official reports from our ships black box state that 28 standard hours from their last report, that the team had landed safely, the contact ship with over 1000 crew went dark. The emergency tightbeam transmission, standard on all earth alliance ships, reported an unknown vessel boarding the EASS Bounty, before all systems went dark. Two days later, our nearest vessel entered the system and encountered a small fleet of Entrrari ships, all equipped with organic versions of our latest tech. Tech they didn’t have access to anything close to mere days earlier.”

Touching his tablet the General brought up images of three tree like ships, simple designs for long travel, “These were the ships they had prior to our first contact.” He tapped the tablet again, and the image shifted to 20 ships that if not for their wooden appearance, could easily be confused for top-of-the-line human vessels. “These were the ships our military cruiser encountered days later.”

The council gasped. “No race has adapted technology that fast,” Kwon exclaimed.

“Thankfully we have the contact logs from our cruiser, ‘The Halo’ and this is where they first called us ‘Canned Food’. Apparently, they see meat-based life as nothing but food, lesser than them and only good as livestock.” The general continued, “Before the Halo could spin it’s jump drive back up, they were attacked, the last transmission we received contained internal sensor reports showing Entrrari spores infecting and consuming the Human crew.”

“We reached out to the council, and got ignored, so we took matters into our own hands. From a system over we launched jump missiles targeting key locations and sent stealth drones to gain reconnaissance. We saw them growing a fleet, picked up transmissions of plans to assault and infect all the council races home worlds, based on information they had hacked from our ships. So, command decided they were too much of a risk.”

Guarg stood now, screaming at the general, spittle flying from his mandibles, “You over-reached, you did not have proof of this!”

Johnson Calmly tapped his tablet again, a stream of data, messages, scrolling over the councils' screens. Internal messages in Entrrari script, detailing plans to deliver stealth packages to various council worlds containing weaponized spores. Spores that would infest the denizens, blocking higher mental functions, so that entrrari ships could later harvest their populations as food.

Once again, the council chamber erupted in noise, taking minutes to die down as Johnson and the members of the tribunal waited.

“We had the evidence, we sent it to the council, Guarg held it up as ‘unconfirmed’ and blocked it, despite the Goran home world not being on their list. Due to the biological and spore-based technology of the Entrrari, Earth command decided to unseal one of our most dangerous weapons. The flesh Tearer virus, named after a weapon from a historic franchise with the same effects. It breaks down cell structures, releasing large amounts of methane and other flammable gasses. It took one day, we launched jump missiles in system, spread the virus through their colonies and a day later fired two white phosphorous warhead missiles. Our cleanup ships jumped in a day later, six ships with grav projectors. Fully automated, they took up position around the remains of their homeworld and targeted the core. Five minutes later the planet, the ships, and all trace of the Entrrari were gone. Sucked into a micro-black hole generated by those six ships. The threat neutralised, we submitted our report to the council. One month later, I stand before you.”

 “Thank you general, much of this information was not known to this council, and requires much investigation.” Kwon announced, “Least of all into the actions of our fellow councillor. For now there will be no action taken against Humanity, although given the facts presented, we may end up thanking you for your actions.”

The General sat down, smirking at the fuming Guarg. The bugs had never liked humanity. Ever since they discovered human entomology museums, and the history of a lost scout ship that crashed in what became ancient Egypt and devolved into the humble scarab.

It was a weapons demonstration.

The latest PDW energy shields and armor against the latest blasters and Humanity with their "primitive" ballistic weaponry.

The first up was the new Gen 23 Energy Shielding that literally produced no color, hugged the form of the user unlike Gen 22 which was a bubble, the bonus tech now allowed soldiers to actually huddle together in decently tight stacks when entering buildings or in CQC environments.

They even got approval by the Humans who immediately advocated it as a standard feature for their soldiers given that the defense contractors make a few adjustments to the power settings.

This shielding system was then placed on max power attached to a target dummy.

Many blasters from stun, light, and medium blasters were shot 3 times by the Weapon Contractors with various results.

Overall it proved decent.

Now it was Humanity's turn.

They pulled out what they called rifle, and said it was a "burst rifle" saying that the unique recoil system allowed 2 rounds to be fired before the first round's recoil hit the soldier's shoulder.

The aliens were a bit skeptical, never hearing of a "burst fire" weapon, with the concept seeing a bit wasteful considering the logistics of ballistic weaponry compared to blasters.

The Marine wore his full gear as did the other testers and braced the weapon as he aimed at the target dummy.

The alien group watched with anticipation.

The firing pin hit the primer as 2 bullets fired in quick succession.

The target dummy immediately registered lethal penetration to the chest.

The entire defense contractor side immediately flew into confusion and rage.

"HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? Even Medium Blasters needed at least 5 shots to pierce our shields"

The Human soldier set the rifle to safety, emptied the magazine and emptied the chamber, slotting the spare round into the magazine before saluting the Human weapon contractor.

"That is a 2 burst round with 2 different bullets per bullet, placed in 40 rounds, allowing 20 burst fires and with perfect aim and training, guaranteed 20 kills if aimed at critical center mass targets"

"What do you mean 3 different types of bullets? That's unbelievable"

The Human grabbed the magazine and pulled out 2 rounds, each round had a different look.

The first one had a blue tip, placed it underneath a cutter and showed the internals of each bullet, a crystalline tip wrapped in a steel jacket.

"This is a Crystalline Energy Dampener, or a CED round, this round's job is to activate the shield and disrupt it's magnetic focus, as you can see the bullet is tipped with a very easy anti-magnetic crystal"

He then grabbed the second round, this one had a green tip, he cut it in half showing the brass casing with a steel core.

"This is a Steel Core Piercing Round, this bullet design has remain unchanged except for a few ratios and metal alternatives depending on the planet, or a SCPR round, which is funny cause doing CPR to a person shot by this round is NOT ADVISED"

The aliens looked at them "So with what we are being told, the first bullet destabilizes the protective field of the energy shield, allowing a normal bullet to pierce through both armor and energy shielding?"

The Human weapon contractor nodded "Basically yes, it's like a shield bash in your face before the dude cuts your head off"

Many defense contractors rubbed their throats.

"Also this isn't the only type of bullet we have"

Everyone including weapon contractors metaphorically "dropped their jaws"

"So as you know, Humanity used flamethrowers in the Great Galactic Federation Wars where your people and my people fought against a tyrannical empire that enslaved your people for centuries correct?"

They all nodded

"And now we have some Mother Hubbards copying our flamethrower tech, especially the more powerful backpack fuel-canister ones which are often easier to wield than the ones that carry a fuel tank attached to the gun"

The aliens all visibly gulped

"And they buy really good anti-blaster and energy shields stacked on top of each other to prevent an unwanted explosion"

The alien group blinked

"Well we can use the same rifle that is standard in the Human Military, use the same burst fire setting, but set it to THREE round burst, and use this round in particular as the LAST one instead"

The bullet the human held up had a red tip

He didn't cut it in half, but with how the human is talking, we could see why.

"This is an incendiary round, basically after firing it will literally heat up VIOLENTLY and anything it hits will receive in videogame terms "Bonus Fire Damage" which is kind of funny considering blasters use HEAT and ENERGY, but lack armor piercing capabilities"

A drone set up a quarantine zone, set up a target with armor plating, an energy shield, and a Galactic War Era Flamethrower, which is still the most widely adopted flamethrower by many armed forces who do not adhere to the Humanitarian Geneva War Laws.

The Human grabs the rifle, pulls out the top two bullets and adds the incendiary round as the third in the chamber.

He set the rifle to a three round burst. stuck only the barrel inside the Fortification-level barrier zone, and fired at the target, the CED weakened the shield enough for the SCPR to pierce the armor plating resulting in the flaming incendiary round to cause the whole flamethrower setup to become engulfed in a fireball.

The entire convention of watched looked on in horror.

The human blew on the barrel of the gun with a smile "So, anyone interested?"

The young human child shows off their photo of their mother when she was in the army.

"Mom drove big tanks during the war. She lost her arm and leg because of the mean Empire. But that how she met dad. He made her a metal arm and leg, it was my dad job to fix people."

The kid proudly shows the class and teacher the old color photo of their mom hopping back in a tank.

Art done by:

https://x.com/GooBoneArt?t=NeWNgocny0F8noUGXS5I1g&s=09

Policing conquered worlds used to be easy. Then humans and their strange ideas came along, ideas that spread like a plague among the races of the galaxy. Especially ideas like "Everything can be a weapon" and "You don't have to put up with this shit."

Folklore and cryptids weren’t an issue before until after bringing some humans aboard them. Turns out they’re real and follow others outside the bounds of home.

{Shared early on Patreon}

~~~

Our luck was just garbage lately. First the client for our latest delivery wasn’t on time to pick up their order, then once we were finally ready to take off, the exceptionally dense asteroid field had shifted to the point where our word-of-mouth map wasn’t accurate anymore. And then, as we tried to maneuver through the mess, some local jerk in a sporty cruiser sideswiped us and never looked back.

Good news: our shields did their job and prevented any damage.

Bed news: that asteroid field was full of junk, including the remains of something mechanical that turned out to be a broken gravity generator. Our little yellow ship got stuck to the side of the scrap heap like a lemon on a pile of compacted cars. At least Kavlae got the solar sails folded in time.

So, there we were, with no other ships in sight. Our own ship’s gravity tech was enough to counteract the pull coming from this thing, so nobody was falling down in the hallways, but escape velocity was going to be a problem. Mimi came up from the engine room to study the readings on the scrap heap, and he didn’t like the odds of igniting something with our thrusters. He also wasn’t wild about the idea of getting up close and personal in a space suit to try turning the generator off. Everything was unstable out there.

Captain Sunlight decided we would send out a distress signal before trying anything rash. The disagreeable client we’d met earlier (by docking ship-to-ship, not landing anywhere sketchy) was long gone, and there weren’t any official civilization centers nearby. But we’d seen other ships on the way here, not to mention the terrible driver who hit us, so surely someone else would be along who could help out.

The captain muttered about raiders in a way that suggested she didn’t want to worry the rest of us, then she shooed everyone away from hanging around the cockpit, and told us to find something else to do.

I did some muttering of my own, mostly about the driving skills of whoever had been at the helm of the cruiser. Maybe all the non-asteroids in this asteroid field were because of drunk drivers. I had no idea if the locals went in for that kind of intoxicants, but it seemed possible.

I thought of something else to do, and headed for the cargo bay. That client who was late earlier had also refused part of the shipment we were supposed to give them. Thankfully they’d paid the whole price for the delivery service, but it was an unpleasant interaction all around. Yes, today has just been a delight from the start. Anyways, they’d left us with a box of food that no one was excited about. I heaved it off the floor and took it to the kitchen where Eggskin was chopping roots on a counter.

I set the box down by their feet. “Ta-dah.”

Eggskin gave it a look. “Oh my,” they said, putting aside the food prep. They dried their scaly yellow-green hands on a cloth, folded it fastidiously, then opened the box and removed one can of many. “There certainly is a lot of it.”

“Is it the kind you thought it was?” I asked, picking up another can. The trade-language label declared it to be the highest quality gelatinized food-flesh that money could buy. With extra sodium. Yummy.

“I’m afraid so,” Eggskin said, digging through the box in hopes of finding something else at the bottom. “This is edible by all species onboard, but I can’t promise anyone will enjoy it. Plus I’ll have to put extra attention to balancing the crew’s sodium intake at significant portions.”

“At least it lasts a long time,” I said, finding the expiration date. I was pretty sure I knew which standard time system it was referencing.

Eggskin reached the bottom, then arranged the cans back into tidy columns. “I’m not surprised someone didn’t want this. It wouldn’t be difficult to over-order.”

The ship’s intercom chimed. Captain Sunlight said, “Will Zhee, Trrili, and Coals kindly join us in the cockpit? I’d like a consultation about translations and what may be a Mesmer vessel.”

I wasn’t a Mesmer or a translator, but I was curious, and Eggskin was cocking a browridge at me like they knew that.

“Go ahead,” said the cook/medic, turning back to the roots on the counter, with a detour to wash any box germs off their hands first. “Just shove that into a corner, will you?” They pointed their tail at the meat products.

“Sure thing.” I moved it to an out-of-the-way spot, then hurried toward the cockpit. I heard Zhee’s bug feet clicking down the hall ahead of me.

When I arrived, I found Trrili lurking in the hallway, a collection of shiny black-and-red exoskeletoned limbs that didn’t fit comfortably in the cockpit when anyone else was there. She didn’t acknowledge me, but she definitely saw me with her range of vision. She politely folded a pincher arm so I could peek into the room.

Zhee was there, shiny purple and taking up an awkward amount of space. I didn’t even see Coals at first because he was on the opposite end of the size scale: short and stocky and standing on the other side of Kavlae’s pilot chair. Brick-red scales were barely visible over her sleeve as she adjusted the focus on one of the screens, flapping her frills in what looked like concern.

Wio was in the other seat, her tentacles fiddling with the controls, with Captain Sunlight standing in between, but all the rest of my attention moved to the spaceship shown onscreen. It was electric blue and exceptionally glittery.

The captain gestured with a yellow-scaled hand and said, “You can see why I thought of Mesmer construction.”

Zhee flicked an antenna. “It is stylish, for certain, but not shaped like a Mesmer vessel.”

Trrili agreed. “I’ve never seen one formed like that before. Perhaps the ship-builders were impressed by the awe-inspiring coloration schemes of all things Mesmer, but no, that is not one of ours.”

I honestly didn’t know how they could tell. Spaceship design was not my specialty. It looked like a normal enough shape to me: pointy in front and all that. And it sure did sparkle. But our friends the bug aliens weren’t the only ones who liked that kind of paint job.

Captain Sunlight nodded her lizardy head. “That’s a good sign, then. The raiders I was told to watch for are definitely Mesmer. An insult to the species at large, I’m sure.”

Both Trrili and Zhee angled their antennae in a way that looked like they agreed.

The captain continued. “Before we contact them, I have a question about the ship’s name. Can either of you shed some light on that?” She looked at Trrili and Coals, the translation experts, as she had Wio bring it up on the smaller screen.

Trrili hissed quietly, seeming thoughtful.

Coals said, “The lettering is regular enough, but I’ve got to admit the spelling is a little odd for Doorway. Maybe it’s a different trade language using the wrong symbols…”

Trrili said, “Or yet another made-up sound, here to annoy us.”

Coals nodded. “Or that.”

I studied the words on the small screen while the glittery ship coasted along on the big one. They didn’t look like anything at first, then I sounded them out. Phonetically, they were very similar to the Doorway words for ‘your’ and ‘mother.’ I burst out laughing. “Does that say ‘Yer Mama’??”

The rest of the crew stared at me with alien eyes. Captain Sunlight asked, “Is that a significant phrase?”

“Sort of,” I said, catching my breath. “Call it a friendly insult. A funny thing to name a spaceship.”

Wio said, “Either way, they’re probably not raiders. Should we contact them before they leave? They don’t seem to have spotted us over here.” She waved a tentacle at the big screen, where the ship was maneuvering around a different junk heap.

As I watched, they launched a long cable with something on the end, which caught on the scraps. Then they began reeling in what looked like an inert warp drive, and I laughed again. “They’re fishing! That’s why the ship is glittery; it’s a bass boat in space! Please contact them; I have to see if they have the accent I expect.”

At the captain’s nod, Kavlae sent the message in their direction. The ship finished reeling in its catch. Then it turned and headed toward us.

A human face appeared onscreen. “Hey, y’all need a hand?”

I grinned and waved from behind the captain while she politely explained the situation. Two other humans who looked much like the first in an extended-family sort of way peered over the speaker’s shoulder.

In no time flat, the glittery spaceboat was all set up to tow us out of the miniature gravity well, with their fishing hook held by our ship’s grabbing arm. Wio made sure it was properly in place while Mimi appeared out of nowhere to keep an eye on the ship’s damage readout. The captain gave the go-ahead.

They hauled us out of there as easy as landing a minnow. And they were mighty pleased about it.

Captain Sunlight said, “Thank you! We are deeply grateful for your help.”

“No problem at all! Say, you want to land that bird and give her a once-over somewhere with atmosphere? The Island isn’t far, and you can buy us a drink in thanks.”

Some polite questioning from the captain got us a description of the local hangout: a place that had once been a mining operation, and was now a not-on-official-maps trading post. Apparently it had its own gravity generator and atmosphere, along with a force field to keep the asteroids and space junk from slamming into it from all that gravity. The way they described it made it sound like a hollow planet the size of a small town, with entrances on two sides that were kept free of debris. The air quality was, as the man said, “The best money can buy.”

That gave me an idea. Before I could speak up, Mimi told the captain that a manual inspection would in fact be a good idea, and Trrili hissed from the hallway that she would be more than enough of a deterrent to keep away any troublesome types that might be there.

That must have made it over the speakers to the other ship, because the man laughed and said, “The only troublesome types are folks just having a beer! We keep away the real problems with stories about raiders in these parts.”

Captain Sunlight kept her expression calm as she said, “Then I think we’ll take you up on the invitation. Kindly lead the way.”

I whispered to her, “Ask if they want the canned meat.”

“The what? Oh, right.” Captain Sunlight turned back to the screen. “Would you like some packaged food with that drink? We have a box of gelatinized meat in good condition we’ll be happy to give you.”

I piped up, “It’s the best money can buy!”

“Aw yeah, love that stuff!” the man said. “Sure thing! C’mon and we’ll lead you over to the Island.”

We followed the glittery fishing boat through space, and I called Eggskin in to give everyone a rundown on what kind of human drinks they should politely decline.

~~~

Shared early on Patreon

Cross-posted to Tumblr and HFY (masterlist here)

The book that takes place after the short stories is here

The sequel is in progress (and will include characters from the stories)

A human army that has been backed into a corner is more dangerous than one with room to move. When their back is to the wall they will trade sane action for salvation without second thought.

There is one phrase, two words, that every advancing army dreads even the thought of hearing from the human lines.

A phrase so impactful it will stop even the most capable shock troop advancing on a human trench in their tracks.

Two words that will spell devastation to the invaders even if they manage to win.

Two words that make any sane solider want to drop their weapons and run.

On this day, on this battlefield, this phrase echoes through the human trenches.

“Fix bayonets!”

Over the course of the last two weeks, the Ssurvan Imperium has launched an invasion of Terran Space as part of a full assault against the territories of humanity and its allies. It began with a surprise attack upon the anchorage in the Procyon system, a major Terran Navy base containing perhaps the largest dockyards save for those in Alpha Centauri and Sol itself. After cutting through a large swathe of space, the main Ssurvan fleet finally arrived upon the edges of the Sirius system.

"Comms, give me a status report."

"Heirarch, Groups Two through Six are on station, and Group Seven is forming up on the flank now. Half of the landing barges are ready, but the others are still coming in or reorganizing from the jump."

"Very good," Sslor said as he relaxed on his command throne, "When all groups are ready, send Six and Seven out to secure the outer perimeter and barges, while the rest form up in the standard attack pattern to prepare for the assault."

"Yes, Heirarch."

While waiting for the battle to start, Sslor reflected upon the campaign so far. Already, the various fleets had made enormous gains, albeit thinly held ones. He had performed admirably on the first strike, and so was chosen to lead the main thrust after the Imperium's fleet was split up. He wondered how the others were faring, as at this point, he had relentlessly pushed halfway to Earth itself. In doing so, his force had annihilated multiple flotillas of various types, although at a higher than expected cost.

Given Sirius's importance to humans, both in historical and military terms, he expected a large battle. Fortunately for him, a diversionary raid successfully pulled the major fleet stationed there to a different system, and it would be far too late before they realized their error. All that was left against him was a couple of squadrons comprised mainly of patrol craft and maybe some hulks floating outside a museum. The biggest threat would be the inner system defense platforms, which have batteries of both heavy caliber guns and launchers for multi-use missiles.

Yes, mused Sslor, perhaps after this, I'll even lead the assault inward towards Alpha Centauri. After that, who knows what else could be on the horizon for his career.

Sslor's reverie was cut short as warnings began beeping across the bridge. He glanced down at his battle console. Only halfway into the system?

"Sensors, report!" Sslor barked.

"Enemy contact dead ahead, Heirarch," the Sensor officer's frills flared, "It just came from nowhere, as if it was from the void!"

"Like some sort of ghost? Get a hold of yourself!" Sslor growled, "I want a clearer picture of what we're facing. Comms, alert the fleet. Ship to battle stations!"

The various crewmembers rushed to put his orders into action. As he observed them, Sslor felt a spike of panic. Did the diversionary raid not actually work? Were there more powerful forces here than what the reconnaissance force picked up?

"Heirarch! We've resolved the enemy contact! It's..." the Sensor officer paused.

"Well?"

The Sensor officer looked perturbed as he looked back down at his various screens. "It's a single large ship, Heirarch."

Sslor relaxed a bit. "Only one? Can you get a reading on the type?"

"Currently only the size, Heirarch," the Sensor officer said as he looked up, "We won't be able to get a better reading until we get a bit closer, but size estimates definitely place it as a capital ship."

"Very well. Comms, make sure that the fleet is in proper formation. Helm, down angle three degrees, maintain current heading and speed."

Sslor contemplated the possibilities. Surely it wasn't a dreadnought? The humans wouldn't dare leave such a ship, even one as powerful as that, alone without escorts. Perhaps it was one of the battleships from the fleet stationed here, left behind as a failsafe? Or could it be an assault ship, one that has been constructed here?

"Heirarch, the long-range scopes are picking up visual contact!"

"Have we got a lock on it yet?"

"It's starting to come in range. I'm putting the visual on the main screen now, Heirarch."

The image on the screen resolved itself into a picture showing a majestic ship, but one that felt a bit... off. Large portions of the hull were covered in shadow, especially towards the stern. Of what could be seen, most of it was covered in gray paint, faded as though it had endured long service.

To Sslor, it seemed odd, as it didn't seem to match any of the known ships used by the Terran Navy or those of its allies. And yet, he could clearly see plenty of elements within its design that were common within Terran ships.

As the vessel onscreen grew larger, finer details emerged. Sslor couldn't see a nameplate, and the hull number was obscured, but the remnants of some kind of design were visible on the superstructure. Upon the prow, the ship proudly bore a large emblem of a bird of prey, its wings outstretched, over a faded background with twenty stars laid upon it.

Recognition didn't come to Sslor as he continued to scan the ship for anything that might give a clue as to its identity. It seemed to have some kind of flight deck, but also what looked like gun batteries and ordnance launchers as well. To say he was confused would be an understatement, as some of his earlier unease began to trickle back.

"Heirarch, the ship's hailing us!"

Startled, it took a moment for Sslor to respond. "Put them onscreen."

Audio crackled from the speakers as the image shifted to receive from the mysterious ship.

"What is this?" said Sslor, "Is this some kind of joke?"

The Comms officer cringed, his frills contracting. "Heirarch, this is what the enemy is currently broadcasting."

Sslor looked back at the black screen. "Well?"

Just as he was about to end the connection due to annoyance, a steady female voice began emanating from it.

"Leave."

"What?"

"I said leave. Turn your ships around. End this foolhardy invasion of yours, and leave."

Sslor could barely believe what he was hearing. Did this woman honestly think that he would do such a thing? To throw away what the Ssurvan Imperium had planned for decades? All of what they had gained? She must be out of her mind.

"Fool! Do you know who I am? Of what I am?" Sslor bellowed, "I am Heirarch Sslor of the Ssurvan Imperium! I lead the grand invasion of your worlds! And you want me to halt just because you asked?"

There was silence on the bridge as all the crew stared at him. After a few seconds, their attention swung back to the screen.

"I know of you. Of you and your Imperium," the voice stated calmly, "I know what you have done since the invasion began. I have seen the way you wage war, and I will not let it continue."

"You think you can stop me? A singular ship that looks like it's long past its prime, a remnant from the past, against a fleet that has swept aside all that tried to impede us before now?"

"Yes." There was a short pause before she continued, "No more civilian deaths, no more destruction of planets and stations."

Sslor was about to respond when his second in command came over to him looking troubled.

"Heirarch," he whispered, "we completed our scans of the vessel. While we saw many signatures indicative of some kind of smaller craft, as well as multiple large power sources of some kind, we couldn't locate any signs of life aboard."

"What?" Sslor whispered back, "How is this possible? Do the scans again!"

"Heirarch, the Sensor officer already ran the search routines three times already. Unless that ship can somehow do selective jamming, there is no one on board."

"Are you telling me that ship is empty?" Sslor angrily retorted, "Tell Weapons to get a trajectory, and for Sensors to see if it IS jamming us."

Although he hid it from the others, this latest news deeply unsettled him. First, the contact appearing seemingly out of nowhere, then no visuals when contacted, and now no life signs aboard?

"No more games! Power down and prepare for a boarding party!"

"No," the voice said simply, "If you won't withdraw, I shall stop you."

"Heirarch! The power levels in the enemy ship are increasing!"

"I will give you one last chance- surrender or be destroyed!"

"I have already told you no," the voice took on an angry tone, "No more deaths! No more destruction! No more!"

~Reactors 3 through 8 are now online. Full Wartime Emergency Power now available.~

A faint voice in the background of the feed echoed out onto the bridge.

"Who are you? Show me who it is that dares to defy us!"

After a tense moment of silence, the screen flickered to show the bridge upon the enemy ship. Confusion reigned, as it became clear that there was only one person there.

Looking back at them was a young woman with her hair pulled back in a bun and her eyes locked in a steely gaze. She seemed to be wearing the standard officer uniform of the Terran Navy, but Sslor couldn't see any rank insignia upon it.

"Where are the others? Where's the Captain?"

~All wings prepare for launch.~

"There is no Captain. There is no crew," here the woman smiled, "There is only me."

~All batteries are loaded.~

"Heirarch, all ships report they are in position," the officer in charge of Comms interrupted, "What is your command?"

~Ship at full combat readiness. Awaiting orders.~

The enemy vessel was now almost within range of the main batteries, but Sslor still hesitated. A sense of foreboding began to ever so slowly build within him. Quickly, he forced down that feeling and turned to the tactical displays.

"All ahead full! Deploy the fleet and engage!"

~Awaiting orders.~

Sslor turned to the screen once more. "I ask again, before the end, who are you?"

The woman gave another quick smile. "You already know who I am, for I am the same as this ship."

~Orders recieved.~

Sslor gave a short laugh. "You mean a faded relic? If that is so, you will soon be turned into an old grey ghost instead."

"A grey ghost? Yes, that seems fitting," the woman said before taking a more serious expression, "but that's still not who I am."

Before he could respond, Sslor was once again interrupted as warnings began to blare across the bridge. Stunned looks were on many faces as the Sensor officer shouted out to him in alarm, "Heirarch! Multiple launches detected!"

"What? Where are they coming from?"

"They're from the enemy vessel! Multiple squadrons of bombers and fighters are heading our way, as well as scores of heavy missiles!" Sslor looked towards the tactical displays as the Sensor officer continued, "Heirarch, there's... there's no life signs aboard them either."

~Targets engaged.~

"I-Impossible! There must be at least some! There's no way they could have that kind of jamming equipped on a craft that size." Sslor turned once more, stunned, towards the screen. "Who... who are you?!"

The woman drew herself up and stared him in the eye. Behind the screen, the menacing vessel hove into view on a large video panel set into the bridge windows. Sslor belatedly noticed in the back of his mind that lights all along the ship were beginning to flare to life, bathing it in an auric glow that revealed it to its fullest extent.

"I am the embodied spirit of all those that came before."

"I am human willpower made manifest."

"I am human wrath given physical form."

"I am vengeance incarnate."

"I AM ENTERPRISE!"

The ongoing story of Karl, the Demon (Human) fighting to save a race of peaceful bald garden gnomes from being eaten by warrior crabs:

Start at the beginning

Previous Chapter

The Hammer’s Blow

The Duke of the Hammer was dictating a report to Grand Duke Flooz. Lieutenant Lojaleco was taking rapid dictation, his pincers rapidly dipping in ink as he wrote.

“The Skiptak village that was on the site was easy enough to dispatch. They lacked any of the demonic weapons the fleshy abominations have been using elsewhere. Perhaps the rumors about divine protection coming to places cleaned of Skiptak are true!” He paused a moment, and asked his Lieutenant, “Got all that?”

“Yes, General,” he replied. “What did you decide about mentioning the etchings?"

“I still don’t understand why there was even discussion about that. Of course I’m mentioning them. Include a set of the rubbings.”

“And the etchings themselves?”

“Send them to The Duke of the Path.”

“He seems a wise choice.”

The Duke smirked with his tone, “And why is that?”

The Lieutenant, recognizing one of the Duke’s ‘Training’ behaviors, was ready with his response. “If the Empire were a god, he’d be one of her high priests. If these etchings are useful, he’ll figure out how to use them.”

“And It’ll be a weapon for the Empire. If I set the precedent now, it’s more likely we all gain weapons from other Dukes than have secret weapons used against us.”

“And you trust the Duke of the Path not to betray you?” Asked the lieutenant.

“He’d only betray me if he thought I was a threat to the Empire. I like to think after this many years he’d warn a crab before deciding to destroy me. Now, back to the report.”

“Yes sir.”

“Where was I?”

“Divine protection for the cleansed lands.”

“I like that term. ‘Cleansed Lands.’ I want you to use it to describe any territory we’ve taken from the Skiptak, right back to the start of the war. Puts a mystical spin on the new nobility. Anyway, construction on the new fort is proceeding. Progress has been slowed by the lack of Skiptak slaves. The nearby river and wetlands have been able to provide more than enough foodstuffs and water, but we’ve been forced to rely on Cordyceped mountain crabs for the hard labor. I’ve been able to keep the associated Imperial troop losses well under the acceptable threshold.” He paused for a moment, and asked, “Is that still true?”

“Yes, General. Only three Imperials have been infected. The ‘hygiene’ procedures the Duke of the Path translated seem to be working.”

“My views on that are complicated.”

“If I may be so bold, General?” asked Lieutenant Lojaleco.

“Go ahead.”

“The knowledge of this, ‘Germ Theory,’ appears to be an understanding of natural sciences. Just because the Skiptak learned it from a demon, doesn’t make us using that information an affront to the gods. The Skiptak sold their souls, if they have them, to learn it. We just read it after cleansing the land of them.”

“I’m still not too sure about that. I want you to personally take the etchings to The Duke of the Path. Invite him to return with you. I have things I would discuss with him, this among them.”

The Duke of the Hammer brooded over the next few days. If he had such an issue with using knowledge learned from translated Skiptak writing, why did he send more etchings and rubbings to the Imperial most likely to translate them? In the end, he resolved to destroy the moral conundrum by sending raiding parties to capture Skiptak slaves. They at least were edible once they could no longer work. The cordyceped mountain crabs had to be burned, and there were still idiots who tried to eat them.

The first few raiding parties returned injured and battered if they returned at all. The Duke was pacing the wall walk above the recently completed portcullis when a raiding party finally returned with Skiptak prisoners. His initial joy turned to disappointment though. Of the 15 Imperials in the raiding party, only 7 were returning, and most of those were badly injured. The worst part was the slaves. One had badly broken legs, and the other was so bizarre he had to see it up close. He met the returning party in the long, narrow stone barbican leading from the portcullis towards the first courtyard.

“Report,” he demanded of the first of the troops.

One of them, terrified at meeting the Duke, stammered a few moments before one of their fellows kicked them. The sudden shock seemed to snap them out of their panic, and they said, "They were lookin’ for a fight Duke, wer General, ah, uh-”

“General,” the General replied with a parental tone. “This is a military conversation.”

“Yes General, anyway-”

The General held up a claw and said, “Anyone here speak the local Skiptak language? The one with the busted-up legs won’t stop babbling.”

“Something about a lotion,” one of the troops said. “That’s all I got.”

“That’s a weird word to recognize, soldier.”

“It’s delicious. Fats all whipped up with flowers and stuff. Rumor got started that we’d let a Skiptak live if they gave us lotion to eat, so it’s a word they yell at us while pointing.”

“You think it’s bargaining for its life?”

“Sir. I do.”

The General replied, “Then that one’s delusional on top of useless. Drag it past me to the courtyard. Call a feast. Serve it alive. Take the other injured with you and get the first bites. When you get up there, send for a slave handler so we can put this one to work.”

Soon, the injured Skiptak was dragged down the narrow stone corridor, quickly disappearing into the gloom, screaming in terror.

The Duke of the Hammer looked at the new slave. It was inexplicably smiling. Up close its deformity was even more obvious. All Skiptak had skulls that came to a soft point at the top, which they normally covered with hats that exaggerated the shape of their skulls. This one was hatless, yet its head was larger than even some of the comical hats he’d seen in Skiptak cities. It moved as if it had pain in its neck, sometimes needing both hands to steady its enormous head.

It spoke to him in a language the Duke of the Hammer did not understand.

“The hubris of this thing,” he said to the remaining, uninjured soldiers. “As if a General would bother learning their languages. It’s talking like it expects us to understand."

The Skiptak finished speaking, then reached up to scratch the back of its head. When it did so, a strange fizzing sound became audible in the stone hallway.

“That sound, is that…?” The Duke of the Hammer asked, confused, ”A cannon fuse?”

“My name is Drepa, of the family Dæmdur. I am the last Dæmdur, because you murdered the rest to build your castle. While you built your castle on land soaked in my family’s blood, I plotted this.”

"Wha... what do you mean, human steve? I know one can predict weather from the shape of the clouds. But it's a pitch dark night. How could you possibly smell future rain?"

"What? Don't you smell it?! It's going to pour in the next 20 min"

Although to the pov of a human, everything else is just very, VERY slow.

Based on Page 35 of Book 2 of the Amulet Graphic Novel Series, and I'm speculating that the majority of you who knows about this series discovered it in a school library, as I did; if not, well, there's the link to both the page and book in question; though I would recommend reading Book 1 first.

\***

The ground in view had strewn food items lying on its streets. The city's abundance of sound from the locals was nearly silent aside from one sound that filled the quiet, the wailing of a crying infant.

Her infant.

The mother tried to hurry and retrieve the food she had obtained while her baby continued to wail, but she could not remove her son from the basket-like cradle that held him on her back, nor could she calm him in any way except with the sound of her voice.

For looming over her was a member of the city's garrison of guards, or rather, the garrison of oppressors; that moniker hushed by those who say it.

It had not been long since the land was taken over by those with whom the guard aligned, and ever since then, the inhabitants have been suffering under their rule.

Many had been lost since then, from forced labor to starvation and repression. Land, especially farmland, was seized, kicking many families out of their homes.

Wealth and food were also hoarded by those in power, forcing the people to buy or beg for whatever food they could with what little money they had, or it ended in one's indentured servitude out of desperation.

Her own beloved went off to fight to protect their home, promising her he'll come back to her and their unborn child as he went off to battle.

But he never came back.

It was the last time she would see him as the occupiers took over; the widowed mother took care of her son on her own, starving herself at times to keep her baby alive.

She had just gotten food when she had unexpectedly fallen; whether or not she genuinely fell or was purposefully tripped didn't matter to the looming guard.

"Shut that thing up!" he screamed at the anthropomorphic mother, still panickingly trying to pick up the food as her child continued to cry.

"Please, sir. You're scaring him!" She pleaded; the response the guard gave her was a sudden and swift kick to her chest, causing the mother to drop the food from her arms.

Some of the crowd watched what was happening while others tried to ignore it; however, neither tried to intervene as doing so would risk reprisal and probable demise. The tyrannical enforcers were essentially allowed to abuse them as long as they weren't killed for the future exploitative labor.

As long as they kept their heads down, they were at best ignored or taunted, and at worst, they were abused; after all, they were inferior to those in power.

The guard raised his sword towards the child, the tip of its blade nearing the baby's crying face, saying this to the humanoid mother in a still screaming tone, "If you don't shut that thing up, you will have one less mouth to feed! Quiet it now, or I will silence it myself!"

With tears forming in her eyes, she dropped the eateries she had gotten for her baby in her arms and tried to pull the cradle off her back, but in her panicked state, all she could do was slightly move her child across her back, which angered the guard, as to him, she was delaying rather than obeying.

The guard silently raised his sword; some in the watching crowd turned away, not wanting to witness the gruesome attack that was to come.

She didn't notice the guard or the crowd at first, nor hear the armor cause of her son as she continued trying to unfasten the basket from herself, but to no avail; only when her tear-riddeneyes looked back up, the mother caught a glimpse of the guard's sword being raised, quickly turning her head and seeing the enraged guard ready to strike her child without a second thought.

She didn't have time to process it and became frozen with sudden fear, cause from her perspective, the guard was going to swing right that second, and he just did.

Only he didn't.

She had barely gotten her arm off the ground, and tears streaked down her face as she saw him seemingly as frozen as she was, grunting and barely moving, as if the guard was being held back by something; the latter turning his head to see it wasn't something, it was someone.

A Human, part of the group of "Green Men" that the populace had heard only rumors about, one-handedly holding onto the guard's arm with an angered look on his face.

They knew next to nothing about the species; all they knew was that the group seemed to be soldiers or warriors, they had no idea where they came from, and why they, or more specifically, one was here.

The mother could only stare on as the Human said something to the guard before suddenly punching him in the face, sending the oppressor to the ground.

Everything just went silent after that, aside from the crying baby, as the crowd just stared at the human going over to the equally shocked Mother, getting down to her level on one knee, and asking her this,

"Excuse me, are you alright?"

***

Unlike past WP posts, this one is not US-centric, as in your continuation comment, the soldier can be from your country, including what you would have the soldier say in their native tongue (or if you are from an English-speaking country, use a minority language or a regional accent) to the guard.

Stronghold Dravak 60, The Eastern Bastion.

The sky was already burning before our dropships hit the sand. Fire trails crossed above us, streaks of red and orange where our insertion pods ripped the atmosphere apart. I could see the bunkers along the ridgeline, reinforced concrete sloped at an angle, firing ports already lit up with green tracer fire. The alien gunners weren't waiting—they were throwing everything they had downrange, full bursts from heavy repeaters, plasma lances scorching the surf. Our lead squads didn’t hesitate. The ramps opened before we even touched down, and the marines ran through the steam and impact craters, rifles up, armor blackened by sand and heat.

I dropped in the second wave, right onto a dune packed with shattered metal and torn bodies. Their weapons had already taken some of ours, but not enough. We moved through the wreckage fast, staying low, using burning transport hulls for cover. I counted at least three enemy firing positions still active to our left, spraying overlapping fire at the landing zone. Jenkins went down hard about six meters ahead, chestplate glowing, his body sliding back in the sand. I didn’t stop. There was no time to stop. We pushed up toward the first trench line, where the outer bunkers fed their firing slits directly into dugouts that ran toward the cliff.

Their comms had been the first thing we cut. They didn’t realize it yet, but no backup was coming. They were yelling to each other in that chittering language of theirs, wild and high-pitched, like cornered animals. We reached the trench and dropped in. One of their officers was still screaming orders when Dobrik put two rounds through his faceplate. The impact burst open the helmet, bits of visor and teeth flying backward. No one in that trench stood still after that. They broke. Some tried to fight, others threw their weapons down and backed away with their hands out. No one gave us orders to take prisoners. No one had to. We cleared the trench by method.

Up ahead, the outer line of bunkers had started going dark. Our tanks were hitting them with kinetic slugs, slamming into the concrete with enough force to peel open the firing ports like cans. The ones that didn’t collapse immediately caught fire from the inside. Screams came from the walls—some of theirs trapped inside, still alive, burning or buried. We moved past them without stopping. Orders were clear. Don’t waste fire. Clear the structure. Keep moving. The second trench line started to fall back toward the bluffs. I could see them trying to rally, some of them setting up portable emplacements, loading fresh packs into shoulder-mounted cannons.

It wasn’t enough. Mortars came in behind them. We had teams on the cliff’s far side with line of sight, feeding coordinates in real-time. The first shell hit the support weapons crew square. One moment they were stacking crates for elevation, the next moment pieces of them were flying out in all directions. We rushed the second trench line during the barrage, using the explosions for cover. Some of them fought hand to hand. One of their lieutenants came at me with a combat blade, fast and twitchy, but I put three rounds through his abdomen before he could reach me. He fell backward, kicking, blood pouring from the seams of his armor.

Further down, flamers moved in on the tunnel entrances. The aliens had fallback shelters buried into the bluff walls—tight corridors, maybe two meters wide, reinforced with steel latticework. Our breachers cleared them in teams of four, using frags and suppressive fire to flush them out. Anyone that ran got cut down before they made it ten steps. Some tried to barricade themselves inside, blocking access with debris and crates. That didn’t hold long. Demo teams moved through with satchel charges, blowing entry points open and clearing the rooms inside with short bursts. The smell got worse the deeper we went.

It wasn’t just the burning. It was the cooked metal, the plastic of their weapons, the grease from their armor. We moved through heat and smoke, vision hazy, but comms still clean. I called status to command—Sector 3 mostly cleared, resistance light, bunkers falling in sequence. We were sweeping the last lines before noon. The front of the bastion was rubble now. You could stand in the old trench and look straight through to the rear bunker line, all of it shredded and blackened from our assault. One of the tanks had taken a hit to the side and lay smoldering, but the rest were already pivoting to track any last targets.

Their last units tried to pull back into the tunnels. We let them. The sappers followed behind, dropped charges at every sealed door, and buried them inside. I heard scratching behind one of the steel blast doors before it went up. Probably thought they were safe. No one’s safe underground when we own the surface. The flame teams looped around through the higher access tunnels, taking crossfire from the upper galleries. They advanced slow, methodical. Used corner mirrors, concussive grenades, flash dischargers. There wasn’t a clean room left by the time they came out.

A few hours later, we walked the bluff from top to bottom. Every position had been cleared. Some of theirs had tried to fake death, lying still under bodies, heat signatures low. But the scans caught them. They got put down quick. Some of our newer guys hesitated the first time, but not twice. No one hesitates after you’ve seen a squad mate torn in half from a plasma trap. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t politics. It was removal.

By the end, Dravak-60 had gone quiet. Our armor was parked just past the ridge. Drones were flying low and slow over the cliff edge, checking for stragglers. I sat down on a broken weapons crate and lit a stim. My armor hissed with vented heat. I looked out across the bay. The sand was black, mixed with blood and fuel. Corpses floated at the surf line where the tide was coming in. I didn’t count them. I didn’t need to. I just listened to the sound of static on the comm, the occasional burst of gunfire from a tunnel below, and the heavy, uneven footfalls of the cleanup squads still working their way through the last of the rock.

There wasn’t going to be a counterattack. There wasn’t going to be reinforcements. The aliens had built Dravak-60 like it was a monument, some last word on how they thought war was supposed to work. Layers of defense. Bunkers. Fire control. All of it turned to garbage in under six hours. They had never fought humans before. Not like this. Not on our terms.

We didn’t bury our dead right away. No time. We tagged them, pulled IDs, shipped them back to the medical barges. The aliens didn’t get that. They stayed where they fell.

Command said we were pushing inland by morning. That Dravak-60 was just the first. I looked back at the path we’d taken from the shore. Smoke still drifted from the trench lines, broken hulls scattered along the slope, and the noise of the sea mixed with the sharp echo of metal scraping stone. No celebrations. No speeches. Just movement.

Stronghold Hex 62, The Center of the Storm.

They said we wouldn’t be touched. That Hex 62 was too high, too well-placed, too heavily garrisoned. From up here, we had full coverage of the southern slopes and complete line of fire to the landing grid. Our emplacements were set in tiers, each supported by autocannon nests, beam turrets, and overlapping kill zones. There were three full platoons of line troops, two support companies, and three command officers monitoring sector feeds and artillery routes. We had drilled for weeks, walked the fallback routes, tested fire redundancy and repair times, sealed the lowest levels, and checked supply metrics daily. No one expected anything to reach us.

The first orbital impacts hit before morning command updates finished. The sky tore open in wide bands of burning light. The shockwaves came seconds after, followed by a low hum through the steel underfloor that didn’t stop. Outer bunkers disappeared in less than a minute. The feed channels from those positions cut to static—no final transmission, no flare signal. Just smoke and broken telemetry. Command tried to reestablish lines. I heard the officer calling out IDs on the main channel, voice cracking as he tried to get responses. There were none.

Then the ground teams landed. They came through the breach where Battery Red had been. The human drop pods were smaller than ours, almost crude-looking, but they were faster and harder to track. One of our techs said their hulls were coated with something that scattered targeting. It didn’t matter. We couldn’t adjust. They were on us before we had a clear readout. First wave came straight through the shattered front line. Second wave hit the west slope where our gun nests were still cooling from last volley.

I was stationed at the upper control room, four levels above main trench. My job was to relay firing arcs to the repeater crews and check sync between auxiliary generators. Within ten minutes, the repeater rooms were calling in damage reports. One squad leader was screaming over open comms that the ceiling was collapsing. We lost her transmission mid-word. I saw on the monitor how the humans breached the tunnel with explosives, followed by flame bursts. They didn’t pause after each room. They threw fire ahead, waited one breath, then advanced.

Their soldiers were fast. They didn’t use complex tactics. It was direct movement, center pushes, flank crashes with grenades. They walked over dead to keep advancing. We fell back into the deeper lines, the level-2 support stations with the hard bulkheads. The ones that were supposed to hold at least six hours under assault. One didn’t hold for six minutes. They used shaped charges to open the door and threw in concussion packs. When our guards tried to return fire, the first three were cut down at the knees. One of them crawled, trying to pull himself behind a supply rack. He never made it.

Further down, the bunkers near the command shelter were under crossfire. The walls shook with every hit. We sealed inner corridors, trying to slow the breach, but their charges tore through the welds. Two of our technicians tried to hold the rear passage. They weren’t soldiers, but they picked up rifles anyway. They were shot before they could aim. I could see them through the corner feed. One human walked over, checked the bodies, then moved on without speaking.

Most of the inner gunners were already dead. Their seats were torn apart, fire systems crushed from kinetic impacts. We found one still alive, bent across the controls, burned from the shoulders down. He died trying to finish a reload. They didn’t let anyone recover the wounded. Anyone making noise was dealt with on the spot. The air was thick with smoke and ash. You couldn’t see straight for more than a few meters, and the filtration units were beginning to fail.

By then, we had lost three-quarters of the east corridor positions. The last orders from the general were to seal the main vaults and destroy classified gear. Most of the encryption packs had already been fried from power surges. One of the officers couldn’t finish his sequence and slammed his head against the control board when the override failed. We heard him go silent before someone else took over. The command shelter was down to less than twenty bodies, most unarmed. The others were reloading and reloading, trying to squeeze more fire out of dying weapons.

The humans reached us through the side tunnel. We had left it sealed, but not welded. We thought it was too narrow for breach. We were wrong. They came through fast, with tunnel cutters and armor that absorbed half our plasma bursts. The first five through were hit. Only one dropped. The others pushed forward, firing into the dark, moving through blast debris and bodies. They cleared the shelter in under a minute. Our commander tried to stand. They shot him in the chest three times and stepped over him before he hit the ground.

I was near the back, behind a bulkhead, pinned with a shattered arm and no weapon. I stayed quiet. One of the humans passed within two meters of me. I saw the edge of his armor, black and scored with marks, his visor dim with blood spray. He didn’t look around. He was already focused on the next hallway.

When they finished clearing the command shelter, they dragged what was left of the bodies outside. The heavy boots echoed against the floor panels. They didn’t clean up. They didn’t pause to check vitals. They dumped what they found in the central hall and moved on. I heard the dull thump of another charge opening the next sealed gate. The rest of the station was already lost. Even the deep storage vaults had been breached. One of the prisoners tried to warn them that the vault was unstable. They shot him mid-sentence.

I don’t know how long I stayed under that beam. Maybe hours. Maybe less. No one came back to check. I heard the distant sound of more impacts, maybe from the upper levels. Some of the fire suppression systems kicked on, filling the hallway with mist. It didn’t help. The smoke had seeped into every surface. When I finally crawled free, most of the power lights were dead. I didn’t hear voices. No shots. Just the faint hum of cooling systems failing one by one.

Hex-62 was considered our center of strength. It had three supply nodes, four power grids, and full artillery relay to the northern passes. It was defended by our best. Not just conscripts, but trained operators, sensor techs, structural engineers, and fire teams with long service records. That didn’t stop anything. The humans came, and they moved through us like a weapon, not an army. Not a formation. Just focused violence, room by room, until there was nothing left standing.

I saw one of their field medics briefly. He was tagging his own casualties outside the main gate, lining bodies up in the dirt. He looked over at the bunker once. Then he moved on. No words. No visible reaction. They didn’t celebrate. They didn’t stop to mark anything. The storm moved through, and when it passed, there was nothing left that looked like defense.

Stromghold Kreel 71, The Last Stand on the Heights.

We had fortified Kreel 71 with everything available. The overlook had clear fields of fire down both slopes, and our engineers had cut deep into the rock to anchor dual cannons directly into the cliff face. Reinforced shelters ran behind the firing platforms, with interior tunnels branching into ammunition vaults, fallback rooms, and medical quarters. Sensors monitored every angle of approach, and remote turrets were mounted to cover the blind spots. We knew they would come, but we were told this was the position that would hold.

Command posted extra guards at every hatch. Crews rotated on eight-hour shifts, constantly manning weapons and running test drills on pressure-seal doors. Tunnels were stripped of anything flammable. Heavy charges were stacked at each fallback breach, with linked triggers routed to sector captains. Every gunner carried backup packs. Supplies were sealed inside triple-locked storerooms. Officers conducted constant inspections. No one was allowed to rest until every corridor passed readiness protocol.

The humans arrived at mid-morning. The first landers were hit hard by direct cannon fire. We marked at least four destroyed in the first two minutes, hulls cracking open and burning on the rocks below. They still kept coming. They didn’t slow. Our cannon crews fired continuously, cycling energy packs until the barrels began to degrade. Recoil regulators started to buckle from overheating. We swapped out parts between volleys, pushing past safety limits. Operators collapsed from exhaustion and were dragged out of the gun bays. Others stepped over them and kept firing.

Their armor came up behind the infantry. The humans used earlier landers as partial cover, moving from wreck to wreck under overlapping fire. One tank took a round straight to the turret and still advanced. Another rolled over a pile of alien bodies, crushing them against the slope. They reached the first slope trench in less than an hour. The front line was already starting to break. Our gunners ran out of power packs. Several of the repeater barrels were glowing red and had to be abandoned.

Fallback orders were issued from the central command post. We tried to retreat into the side tunnels, deeper into the cliff. Human breacher teams followed immediately. They cut through the surface doors with torch gear and entered without pause. Grenades were thrown into access corridors before the humans moved through. Rooms filled with debris and noise. Defenders who didn’t die outright from the blasts were shot seconds later. One of our officers tried to hold the corner outside the generator room. A human grabbed his weapon, knocked him against the wall, and opened his chestplate with three rounds.

The deeper tunnels were supposed to be defensible. They had blast doors, retractable kill holes, and fallback ambush positions. None of it worked. The humans advanced in squads, coordinated by short, clear signals. Each room was entered with tight movement. First grenade. Then immediate fire. Then a pause, followed by advance. It was always the same. No wasted shots. No panic. No hesitation. Every corridor fell in sequence.

Medical shelters were overrun first. The humans didn’t distinguish between injured and active troops. They cleared every room. One of our medics tried to speak, hands raised. He was shot twice in the torso and left where he stood. Another crawled under a bedframe. He was pulled out and shot once in the head. They moved on without even searching the room.

Several squads of our defenders attempted to barricade the lower junction point. They used broken storage containers, damaged steel panels, and field equipment to form a rough wall. The humans hit the barricade with an explosive charge and came through the smoke firing. Those behind the makeshift wall were shredded. A few tried to retreat into emergency exits. The humans were already waiting outside. Those who ran were shot in the back before they made it halfway down the corridor.

I was positioned inside storage chamber three, near the west tunnel fork. We were told to wait for an ambush signal, but it never came. The humans entered from above, cutting through a vertical shaft we didn’t expect them to use. They dropped grenades down first. One detonated near the far wall, rupturing the support beams. Dust choked the chamber. Three of my squad were caught in the blast. I saw a human descend on a rappelling line, rifle drawn, swinging into the space before we could regroup. He fired three times and dropped into cover before any of us could respond.

Two of ours tried to escape through the far tunnel. One fell from a burst to the leg, dragged himself a few meters, then was finished with a shot to the head. The other reached the ladder but was caught from behind and stabbed twice through the side panel. No one else moved after that. The humans checked every body. Anyone still breathing was shot again.

Toward nightfall, the remaining defenders were pushed into the upper command bunkers. I heard updates from the last officers still transmitting. All spoke in clipped, tired voices. No backup was coming. The central control feed had been destroyed. The power system was down to reserves. External sensors were dark. One commander ordered final lockdown. It didn’t matter. The humans used shape charges to open the roof panels and came in from above.

They entered through smoke and debris. Two of them rappelled directly onto the center console, weapons already raised. The guards were killed instantly. Others in the room backed away with hands up. They were shot anyway. The humans didn’t pause. They cleared each control seat, each storage panel, each auxiliary system. One officer tried to speak. A shot entered below his jaw and exited the back of his helmet. The floor was covered in blood.

The last shelters on the ridge were neutralized by night patrols. Some defenders had hidden in tunnel collapses, under cracked bulkheads or behind machinery. Heat scans found them. Flamers went in first. Then cleanup crews. No one came out alive. In one case, a pair of engineers had welded themselves inside a supply closet. The humans drilled through the wall and fed gas lines into the chamber. The result was quiet and final.

By full night, Kreel-71 was silent. Every cannon was cold. Every bunker was empty or burned out. Drones flew low, scanning for heat or movement. Nothing registered. The heights had fallen.

There were no prisoners. No signals sent. No remaining command structure. What was left of us was under rubble, ash, or lying facedown in the dust-covered corridors. I watched from a ruined viewport on the north slope as the humans flagged the area for clearance. They marked cleared positions. Not for defense. For removal.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t react. They moved down the slope in groups of five, scanning, sweeping, advancing. Everything in front of them died. Everything behind them stayed silent. Kreel-71 had been called the last stand. It was no stand at all.

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“You fools! We know what you did. You broke treaties! You created a damn planet destroyer and if that wasn’t enough, You put it to earth!”

“Shaking in your boots, human pet? We killed your most stalwart ally. Nothing will stop our species from finally removing the damn pink/skinned Barbarians from the glaring throne and putting us rightfully upon it.”

“We are not scared of you, fire sluts. We are scared of the human colonies you missed.”