How I Got Here: "The Declaration"
25 Oct 2024Columbuss
Huxley was focused on his breathing. One breath in. One breath out. One breath in. One breath out. He repeated it in his head over and over again, like a mantra, with each step, trying to ignore the whizz of the fiery, hot orange tracer rounds snapping past his head. The constant rat, tat, tat of machine gun fire and the recurring crack of the subsequent round that he never would have heard if it had done was it was intended to do, served as the back drop to the loud percussion of artillery explosions around him. All of this did nothing to help him maintain his composure. He tried to focus. To stay on target. He was desperate not to let his thoughts wander. Focusing too much on why he hadn't died yet, was a sure fire way to get himself killed. He had to keep breathing. He had to keep moving. He had to stay alive.Looking forward, out toward the tree line ahead, Huxley could see distant flashes and the streaks of light attached to them, each one hurling bolts of red hot steel in his direction. He stepped over the bodies of the men who'd set out ahead of him. Some were screaming. Clutching at an entry, or exit, wound, trying to keep the contents of their body on the inside. Other's weren't moving at all. Some of them were holding on to breaths that were only delaying the inevitable. An entire life time of memories and experiences culminating in a handful of panicked breaths before being added to the menagerie of bodies littering the ground. From a human being to a number in a matter of seconds.
With each labored, panic breath, he trudged through a gauntlet of chewed up earthworks and newly formed holes filled with water and blood. All around him, the ground was thumping with impacts, sending plumes of dirt and debris into the air. The crackle of sand and shredded flora echoed through his helmet as he forced himself forward, trying to stay alive.
Huxley used every ounce of strength he had in him to keep going. To stay upright. To keep moving forward. The line wasn't far off now. He could see it. Like an deep ditch that stretched out on either side of him for a mile at least. He could see the rounded tops of helmets darting back and forth inside of it. Some were stationary, manning weapons emplacements and hurling their own burning red slugs back into the tree line out in front. Other's were moving back and forth, carrying boxes of supplies, medical equipment and ammunition meant to hold off the armored vehicles bursting through the trees out in front. Huxley stopped, taking half a second to catch his breath and feeling the weight of his helmet shift, lopsided, down toward his ear. It had always been too big on him. Command had always promised him a new one "when supply made them available." Say it long enough, and it starts to sound a lot like "when someone with a head your size dies."
Huxley had just got his helmet back level when he felt it disappear from his grip. In an instant, he was no longer holding onto it, his body was no longer upright and his face was pressed up against a soft patch of, what felt like mud. He turned his head, finding the air again but struggling to take any into his lungs. The wind had been punched out of him from the back. He reached his hands out, placing them into the dirt and trying to push his body off of the rifle that had once been slung over his shoulder. The strap had fallen down around his elbow and he could feel the weight of it pulling down on his arm. For a moment, he considered not getting up. For a moment, he thought he could just lay there forever. The world outside of the three inches in front of his face had gone silent. The jagged, sharp noise of the carnage unfolding around him had dimmed to a dull roar until, for what felt like an eternity, he couldn't hear it at all. It was peaceful. For a moment, it was quiet and he considered not getting back up.
"Get up son!" A voice called out.
The noise of combat quickly rushed back to the surface of his consciousness as he felt a hand gripping the strap of his backpack. The hand pulled, until Huxley could feel his knees start to straighten up and collect underneath him. He felt around for his helmet, but couldn't find it. Looking up, he saw the face of Sargent Prexenatal standing above him.
"You wanna die in that hole?" he asked. "Or do you wanna die on your feet like a man? Stand up!"
Huxley shuffled back to his feet, pulling at the rifle strap in his hand until the weapon was tucked back in to his shoulder. Sargent Prexenatal pulled Huxley forward as he moved toward the embankment leading down into the trench in front of them. As the sandbags and razor wire rose up over his head with each step, Sargent Prexenatal let go of Huxley's backpack strap and moved down the trench line with several other men in tow.
Huxley leaned back against the towering dirt wall, closing his eyes and attempting to get his panicked breathing under control. He closed his eyes, placed one hand on his chest as if trying to will his racing heart to slow down. He stood there, still and silent for a moment, feeling his heart rate start to slow. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, feeling the air satiate his thirsty lungs for what felt like the first time. Despite the fresh air in his lungs and stabilization of his heart rate, Huxley was admittedly disappointed in how quickly his body had recovered. He could have stood there, quiet and motionless, forever.
Huxley slung his rifle back over his shoulder, resituating it for comfortable transportation, took two steps forward and moved down the trench line to the left, following Sargent Prex. Each step through the trench line was laborious and loud with the sound of spent brass underneath his boot. He ducked into the trench wall, avoiding a man carrying a box full of munitions while taking another step, only to duck into the other side as a man fell from his pulpit with a bullet hole in his neck.
"Hux!"
Huxley looked up from the man on the trench floor, clutching at his throat, trying to keep the blood in to see Sargent Prex motioning toward the pulpit.
"Hux!," Sargent Prex yelled again. "You gonna carry that rifle all day or are you gonna to use it?! Get in the pulpit and kill something!"
Huxley swallowed hard in his throat before kneeling down next to the dying man on the trench floor. Their eyes met as the gasping man made noiseless pleads for help. The man reached out, grabbing Huxley's jacket and pulling. Tears ran down his cheeks as he gasped for air. Blood gurgled out from between his lips while he mouthed what looked like the word, Momma, over and over again. Huxley never broke eye contact. He held the man's gaze for as long as he could until the terrified eyes turned life less. Like watching a candle on the last legs of it's wick, slowly burn out.
Huxley reached up, grabbing the helmet off of the dead man's head and placing it on his. It was too small and pinched the sides of his temples but he could stand it if it meant not dying. Huxley turned away from the body, back toward the pulpit entrance, pulled back on the cocking mechanism of his rifle and propped it up on the sandbags at the top of the trench. Looking out toward the tree line, the landscape had changed from the last time he'd seen it. Before he'd entered the trench, the space between him and tree line was vacant save for the fiery red tracer rounds flying back and forth. Now, the tree line had collapsed behind a wave of armored vehicles and mechanized infantry walkers, all of them, heading in his direction.
Huxley looked down the sights of his rifle, pulling back on the trigger and feeling the rifle kick into his shoulder. He pulled the trigger again and again, feeling the rifle kick each time. Somewhere in his heart he'd hoped that which each round, he could turn the enemy back himself. That somehow, he could make a difference. He held his breath and fired again. Time slowed down as he watched each round leave the end of his rifle and disappear into the advancing hoard out in front. He pulled the trigger of his rifle until it ran dry, watching as the final round flew down range and ricocheted off of the armored hull of one of the advancing mech's.
Huxley ducked down below the trench line, removing the magazine from his rifle to replace it with a fresh one. Looking up, he could see Sargent Prex running toward him as flames began to fill the space behind him as he ran. The last thing Huxley saw was Sargent Prex reaching for him before everything went black.
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The noise of the war ends abruptly as the holographic display filling the space at the center of the room slows to a stop. The orange light hangs in the center of the room, suspended like a frozen animation as the lights above our heads slowly start to illuminate. I turn to Finn, sitting next to me to gauge his reaction but his eyes stay focused on the holopad in the center of the room.
The suspended light starts to distort and bend around the figure of an elderly woman as she walks through it from behind, the echo of her cane ringing out in an audible *clang* against the holopad with each step. Her figure begins to take shape as she passes through the suspended light until she is standing at the podium at the center of the half circle of raised seating in front of her.
I turn my head away from Finn, glancing to my right and eyeing the various people in attendance. Some of them I recognize as having seen before, others, I haven't.
"Welcome all," the woman at the center says, placing her cane by the side of the podium and resting her hands on the flat surface of it. "As many of you know, my name is Halmina Farrow. I've been a Chairman on Al Mina's ruling council since before many of you were born."
The room lets out an audible chuckle, before the mood settles.
"There are many new faces here. It wasn't long ago that most of the people in this room were my age or older. However, times have changed and this council, which has stood for nearly one hundred years, is being torn apart. Half of the councilmen who once sat where you sit now, have taken seats at the capital on the other side of the system. They've been seduced by a tyrant, deep in the pocket of corporate puppet masters, who is promising them wealth and power. Ironically, their greed has done something they themselves couldn't do. And that is to ensure that only loyal, patriotic Al Minaans sit this chamber."
A gentle round of applause is quickly cut short as the gravity of the situation behind the speech unfolds.
"At roughly three o'clock in the afternoon, yesterday, armored columns from the 1st Mountain Mechanized Division assaulted the secure borders of several free Al Minaan cities who have stood in peaceful defiance of Chairman Grill. These forces are lead by a Grill loyalist by the name of Miles Gregoyavich, who I am sadly ashamed to say, I once considered a friend and colleague. What we've all just witnessed on the holopad behind me is the helmet cam account of one of the defenders of those cities. There can be no mistake as to what we've all just witnessed. This is not a limited military action. This is not to route known separatists or nefarious collaborators. This is a declaration of war from the capital of this system on the free people of the B star."
Halmina pauses, letting the last sentence sink in. Glancing around the room, I watch as the stern faces of the new council members focus in on Councilman Farrow, hanging on her last breath.
"Through the tireless efforts of our agent, and lifelong loyal Al Minaan Finnegan Hardy, we have exposed Councilman Grill for the tyrant he is. A year ago, an explosion rocked the capital building on Al Mina A 1. Many people died there, including close personal friends of mine. It has been revealed, through Agent Hardy's efforts, that it was Miles Gregoyavich who orchestrated that attack. Gregoyavich has the backing of Councilman Grill in the attacks that were carried out yesterday and, as we speak, fleets from the A star side of our system are moving into position to conduct further attacks into our space."
Councilman Farrow continues, taking a deep breath and stifling what is obviously a quiet rage inside.
"For too long we have sat idly by while our futures were sold off to corporate interests to the benefit of a select few. For too long we have watched atrocity after atrocity committed against our people under the guise of "maintaining peace" in our dominion. I will not side idly by and watch another generation of Al Minaans fall prey to a tyrant any longer. Today, we are assembled here, in this sacred and hallowed chamber, to vote on a declaration of war against the tyranny of the self appointed Supreme Chairman Grill and the renegade General Miles Gregoyavich. If these madmen are left unchecked, they will not stop until we are all dead and Gregoyavich has replaced this assembly with a throne. Please remember this as we make our decisions here today. Thank you."
Councilman Farrow steps away from the podium, taking her cane in her left hand and slowly walking to her seat at the assembly.
"Nice speech," Finn whispers to me.
"Do you think they'll go for it?" I ask him. "A lot of these people don't look old enough to know how serious this is."
"Don't underestimate Al Minaan resolve and patriotism my friend," Finn says. "I'd recommend making sure The Chelsie has enough bullets for what comes next."