Index: Doom denied | The Dismemberment doctrine
Oppression.
Those who suffered it oftentimes were powerless to escape and the monsters who perpetuated it, cared not for the oppressed. It happened every star-day and pretty much all over the galaxy, there were obnoxious sentients who crushed others under their thumb. For one or another reason, did these creatures transform themselves into oppressors.
Oft they saw themselves superior to their fellow sentient and squashed the “inferior,” denied others even the simplest amenities. Deranged followers of fake religions or godly canon warped beyond its original intent and purpose, they condemned others, labeled them “heretics” or “evil.” Sentients, fully embracing one or another authoritarian ideology, debased others out of political convenience, robbed their opponents of their freedom and silenced their voices.
In many cases, however, the oppressor was of much simpler vocation.
No matter how mundane the common slaver was, he or she robbed billions of innocent peoples of their lives. Sometimes entire planets, star systems even, were systematically raided and their occupants, sold into slavery. No matter where one of these unfortunates ended, it was indeed their final destination. In the space age, where cyber-tech and powerful telepaths ruled, there was no escape.
Unless somebody possessing equal or greater power came to your rescue.
For the crushed Avern’a such hopes were long since dead. Many heroes, altruistic organizations and military corporations came to lend a helping hand. They were all gone now, their skeletons clad in rusted armor rotted under the sands or rolled on the ruined floors of ancient buildings. The molten husks of mechs, tanks, and all conceivable type of combat vehicles, dotted the desolate landscape of Avern’a Prime.
The planet’s dwindling population was beset by life-stealing parasites on all sides.
Jaern hunters kept their never-ending drive to supply the priestess of their vile god, The One, with fresh sacrifices. People not deemed fit for the altars ended on Jaern tables. Split open and devoured while they still drew breath, for this was the invader’s tradition, their culture.
Slavers swarmed the planet like locusts and came from all over Fringe Space in their starships. From small, insignificant bands, to huge corporation size groups, the peddlers of flesh had their field day on Avern’a. Looking for easy captures, many of them supplied the Jaern or, in some cases, Vaugn scientists.
Many of these opportunists shared, in hushed, private conversations that the debased Matriarchs were in some sort of an agreement with the planet’s current masters, the Jaern. Whatever the truth was, slavery was profitable business and many a thug made a good living working as a guard – either for the Vaugn or the Jaern.
Then there were those who craved glory and riches.
Evil or simply indifferent to the suffering of others aliens flocked to Avern’a Prime. These formed tiny, but powerful villainous groups and preyed upon what was left of its populace. Sly, merciless Taz’arans, relentless Taksians, peerless Clanners, and yes, even Jaern who fell from grace joined forces. Together, these skillful and oftentimes well-equipped aliens made a name for themselves by defeating the noble ones who came here to help.
Of course, these evil heroes’ favorite past time was... oppressing the Avern’a.
They saw it as a vacation of sorts; a number of pleasurable days, spent in the unwilling company of some unfortunate woman, man or a child. Victims who somehow survived this abuse, were then sold off at a bargain’s price to slavers or just kept as “pets.” Yet, no matter how powerful the villains thought they were, a discomforting uneasiness always clawed at their minds.
‘Tis was the Universe’s voice, telling them that they were living on borrowed time.
In orbit of Avern’a prime, there, lurking inside the darkest of shadows, floated a Terran warship. An ominous shadow designed to be nigh invisible, this heavy corvette’s armaments were trained at the nearest orbital defense satellites. Her battery of high-powered Röntgen laser cannons could easily destroy any of the slugging around patrol ships, and condemn their cannibalistic crews to a torturous death by intense radiation. Engines as cold as the dark through which she flew, INS Black Hood glided effortlessly using her secretive grav-drive.
If the oh-so-mighty Jaern, who considered themselves the undisputed masters of this part of space could actually see its hull on their sensors, they’d defecate in their suits.
Sitting in his command chair on the bridge of INS Black Hood, was her commander, Brigadier General Gareth. He was an officer bristling with confidence, earned from many decades spent on the battlefield and his troops loved him. Throughout his entire, long career, the general never left anyone behind and all of his operations were meticulously planned to the very minute of details.
Gareth Daniel Thomas was seventy-five years old and in his prime.
Jet black hair, a small mustache and focused, brown eyes complemented his chiseled, British chin. With broad shoulders and long, incredibly muscular limbs, this man had the appearance of an Atlantean statue. Seven foot and a half in uniform; clad in his stormtrooper exosuit, Gareth or how his troopers called him, the General, became nearly eight foot tall.
Trained to perfection scout, he was now a specialist stormtrooper and in command of the secretive “Ghost Wolf Brigade.” On behest of one rather important and quite well connected individual, including virtually all field assets – their unit was ordered into this star system. Their orders were to be unsealed after successful infiltration and establishing close orbit above Avern’a Prime.
The holo-file which was now projected before him, contained probably some of the most “delicious” set of objectives the General had ever seen.
He did not emote; not even one muscle on his stern face twitched after he swiftly read the orders. Gareth was informed that, certain detachments of Imperial Commandos were tasked by Minarchy’s High Command to conduct covert ops somewhere. That place was Avern’a Prime, and after reading on all the data they had on this place during hyperspace flight, the General understood why.
It was all a prep; they were laying the foundations of a future, massive operation and these orders backed his expert assessment. His brigade’s primary objectives included taking out enemy “heroic” figures, disrupting comms, and wreaking havoc upon specific G-Net nodes. Hacking and/or silencing enemy communications was their modus operandi, therefore he expected no trouble there.
Reading one of his secondary objectives was what actually made his mind tingle – the Stormtroopers of his unit were to leave no survivors. There were multiple other goals, like consolidating with any local resistance forces, providing aid to sheltered civilians etc, etc.
However, he and his men were trained to fight, and murder the vile, genocidal enemy they gladly would.
Humanitarian operations were nothing new to his troops; they’d silently deliver supplies, move refugees to safe locations, heal the sick and tend to the wounded. No matter how much the Minarchy’s enemies feared Terran soldiers, to the oppressed people of Fringe Space, he and his brothers in arms were Angels of Life.
The last goal which High Command set for the Ghost Wolf Brigade was to save as many of the locals as Terranly possible.
Gareth was a proud recipient of two Blue Iron Crosses – medals only awarded to those who singlehandedly saved at least a hundred lives, and during the heat of battle nonetheless. Not for medals he became a stormtrooper, but having these awards was a tangible thing, a sign that he was doing exactly what he dreamed of as a young child.
He stood up, uploaded the orders to his troopers and, for a few short minutes observed what his Ops specialists were doing. Certain someone had commissioned the best possible covert scan of at least one of the parked in high orbit Jaern motherships. This was the exact same person who managed to pull enough prestige so the “Ghost Wolf Brigade” and INS Black Hood fought a decisive battle above a planet called Gaour.
“Prepare all stealth pods for deployment, Bosun. Then haul your ass to the nearest hangar and drop to your operation’s area.”
“Aye General, sir! Lemme guess, you be jumping alongside us?” – snarkily inquired the old veteran.
“No.” – the General cracked his neck, and made one long step toward the elevator – “This time, my boots will be the first to stomp the ground.”
“Understood! Loading your personal pod in the launcher first, General Sir. I’m leaving the crate for last; me arse be strapped to it, full loadout and ‘verything.”
“Make sure everyone lugs extra power packs, ‘nades, and needler mags.” – Grumbled the General, one foot already inside the elevator, head half turned back.
“Aye, me knows what’ado, Sir.” – with his usual snark answered the Bosun, saluting Gareth with his beefy hand.
The General walked out of the elevator after the ten second ride with a brisk pace, and entered the armory.
This was where his personal exosuit and weapon loadouts were stored; plus the gear of one full stormtrooper platoon. It wasn’t long, perhaps a mere twenty seconds after he’d stepped into the boots of his armored suit, when more troopers joined him. No one said a word, but while the suit’s VI reported system readiness, Gareth could feel their will to save lives. So thick this want was, that one would need a high-powered anti tank laser to slice through it.
He need not give verbal orders anymore; his people were the elite of the elite.
For more than fifty years, they spilt the blood of many enemies and made a mess of their entrails. His specialists could operate interdependently, as one man units, and this Op required exactly this.
Hunter-stalker tactics or “The Dismemberment Doctrine” was something he and his people rarely had a chance of employing. This meant that each stormtrooper had to clean their designated drop area, and achieve all objectives not only with their usual haste, but leave not one enemy alive.
All of their exosuits were built from stealth alloys and sported energy absorbing armor-plating, one forged from top quality Zimir. Each suit had a light exoskeleton factory installed, plus high-quality scanning goggles. Everything was linked to the suit’s faceplate; the stormtroopers could achieve extreme precision by employing their assault gun’s holo-scopes.
The RXO Mk3 was a rotary, fully automatic railgun, whose three barrels fired 3mm pellets. It came factory encased with a stealth composite shroud and a sound dampener, which masked its deadly roar. The holo-scope attachment and an upgraded heatsink were the first things every stormtrooper tweaked on their new guns.
He grabbed his assault gun, maglocked a few extra power packs to his suit’s utility slots and checked the needler.
It was a weapon made standard for covert ops, and especially loved by his unit. He checked if the shoulder mount was properly aligned with his faceplate’s integrated scanning goggles. Then picked a stack of magazines and stuffed them inside his compact backpack. It was already prepared by the Bosun’s crew; full of emergency supplies like medpacks, field rations, and a handful of different ‘nades.
Different part of his dark gray suit became translucent, then invisible in quick succession and his VI reported:
“TOC system fully operational, ready for combat.”
The last thing he maglocked to the suit was his foot long gray dagger. Stormtroopers from his brigade usually carried blackened short swords, which they used to strike from the shadows, but his own was more of a up-in-your-face kind of weapon. It was tradition in his family, ever since their old seafaring days, to stuff the gob of the most vilest of vile sods full of steel. Megasteel this time; his vibro-blade dagger could slice through pretty much most types of armor-plating.
Wireless communication jamming and G-Net scrambling would be provided by their support craft. Everything – stealth pods, cloaked shuttles and dropships, was to drop in unison then the Op would begin. Though it was to be a short one, the General expected this to turn into a most vicious battle. During and after Phase one, the shuttle electronic warfare specs were tasked with denying the enemy comms.
The longer they could maintain that dome of confusion intact, the better.
The General stepped into his drop pod, which had emerged from the now open launch bay. Armories had pod launching tubes integrated in their floor plating, for speed and ease of deployment. First thing he did was to secure himself by locking all clamps, then Gareth switched the pod’s finely tuned grav-drive on. Without it, few could survive the insane Gs during and especially at the drop’s final moments.
In his steeled mind, however, this Op felt just the same as the others. Successfully pulled off; main and secondary objectives completed, all troops recovered. There was no hesitation or further deliberation, for the General and his soldiers were stormtroopers. Their job was to flash assault their targets, wipe out the enemy with extreme prejudice. Then they would move quickly, attack targets of opportunity, hit where their enemy was the most prepared, but do so with stealth.
Few if any survivors were left after this stormtrooper brigade did its job. Those aliens in the know spoke in hushed, terrified voices how the shadows suddenly spoke Terran. How swift death came for those who thought their fancy gear or heavy armor would protect them.
Oft analysts thought that the otherwise mercilessly efficient Terrans actually left survivors on purpose... and they would be right. Fear was a sharp, deadly weapon and Imperial Minarchy troops learned how to use it well. This was the way this specialist unit won their battles and how the “Ghost Wolf Brigade” became a true nightmare for the enemy.
INS Black Hood gently careened, moving closer towards the planet.
Invisible to Jaern eyes and sensors, a swarm of forged from stealth alloys drop pods, cloaked shuttles and dropships, left the Terran warship. The utmost of care was taken so their descent through the atmosphere didn’t create burn traces. This meant the initial drop was slow, which in other case, if the pods were not stealthy, would mean certain death. Even a low yield particle-beam anti orbital emplacement could effortlessly blow the tiny pods to shreds.
Indeed, just as he promised his Bosun, the General’s boots were first on the ground.
Mere minutes after the drop, under TOC, his suit was dashing towards the first objective. Two clicks from his drop zone, this location was designated as a “small slave market” and he intended to deal with whatever opposition was there, quickly.
The VI of his suit reported, one second after his combat area’s sys ops initiated full enemy comms blackout:
“Partial passive scan of the main objective displayed on your faceplate. It would appear that another group of aliens have just taken control of this location. They are currently and very... inefficiently, killing other sentients.”
The General increased his pace; silenced by the suit’s integrated sound dampener, his exoskeleton whined louder as he leapt over rocks and small dunes. It was a tiny enclosure that first objective – once, in the distant past, a small amphitheater or stadium. All that was left of it now were crumpled ruins, poorly repaired, rebuilt many times and by different sentients.
His VI continued, while Gareth’s goggles finally caught sight of a stray particle-beam fire, illuminating the evening Avern’a sky:
“Scan-data received; the sentients being killed are Avern’a, General. The life-signs of those few who are still alive do not look optimal. They all suffer from blood loss and various organ damage... ”
“How many enemies and how many Avern’a are still alive, Suit!”
“There is a small enemy unit occupying the ruined enclosure, a reinforced squad, fifteen strong. Eleven Avern’a adults, six of them female, and five children... correction, five females. The non-combatants are moving in an erratic manner, while the enemy unit is haphazardly firing at them, Sir. I have nothing to correlate this occurrence with in my database.”
“The blighters are having ‘fun,’ Suit.”
“Sir, I have to report that another four Avern’a, this time male, have unfortunately expired. May I ask, when are we going to have fun?”
“Momentarily.” – said the General and aimed his assault cannon.
***
How quick, accurate, and efficient really are the famed Terran stormtroopers? The specialists of the elite Ghost Wolf brigade are supposed to be the best of the best. Will they act swiftly enough and save the lives of these unfortunate people? This and more, dear readers, you will discover in the next episode!
I just love your way of getting everything ready for the big battles. I will enjoy reading abouts these awful baddies. Meeting the General.
Excellent!