Casus Belli
13 Feb 2022TripleRazor
Tristan grinned as the woman behind the counter at Pioneer Supplies slid the gun across the counter to him. “Fresh back from the workshop, Commander. She’s maxed out now.”
He picked the Tormentor up and admired the paint job he’d had put on it; dark with red lines crisscrossing the body. The clerk chuckled. “Remind me never to get in an argument with you!”
He thanked her and made his way across the concourse, back to the hanger where Flipside, his Viper MkIV awaited him. Boarded, launched and headed out from Silves Dock. A brief time in supercruise took him to Transire Benefacienado. The carrier was already preparing to move from Komovoy to Kadrusa, the latter being close enough to Summerland, where war reared its ugly head. But not just any war. This was a righteous war, one which would be remembered for a long time in the history of the Empire.
He had been hunting Thargoid Scouts in the Dan system, following the recent incursions, when the news had reached him about the rescue of Her Imperial Majesty, Arissa Lavigny-Duval from a year-long captivity. Held by those working for traitors. Senators who secretly backed the vile terrorists of the NMLA. To say he was furious was an understatement. Like many Empire-aligned pilots, his personal loyalty towards Arissa was very strong.
How dare they? How dare they even touch a hair on her head?
And so he had travelled back, pausing only to collect the pistol, before heading out to help crush the ships and soldiers of Darkwater Inc. Rose had gone quiet when he told her.
“I see. And I suppose you’ll be taking....that ship.”
His footsteps on the deck echoed as he crossed the pad to ‘that ship’. Rose remained in the hanger lobby, unwilling to get any closer. She was as pragmatic and practical as anyone Tristan had ever met, but something about Devourer gave her the creeps. The Corvette was painted solid black, with a stark white death’s head on the prow. The nameplates bore the Imperial Eagle, proudly declaring allegiance, next to the decal of a pilot who has earned Triple Elite. Her one visit aboard had shown her the pilot’s console was decorated with bobbing, grinning skulls and leering jack-o-lanterns. Oh, she loved Tristan deeply, but that ship seemed the manifestation of a darkness in him that scared her witless.
Even before he had reached the boarding ramp, she shuddered, and turned away, heading for the lift as fast as she could. Tristan watched her leave, shoulders slumping sadly. Took a deep breath and embarked. Xenia Goodwin, his fighter pilot, saluted smartly as he strode on board. Olive-skinned, dark-eyed and sultry, she had proven her skill more times than he could recall, steering a Trident hybrid fighter against their foes aboard both Devourer and One of These Days.
“How you feeling, Xenia?”
“Like a miserly maternal fornicator, sir!” They both cackled.
The carrier jump was over, and the Corvette had traversed the last few light-years to Summerland, it being one of those systems where carriers were not permitted. He intended to unleash Devourer’s guns against the vessels of Darkwater very soon, but his personal anger required him to first take down a few of their foot troops. Up close and personal. After the ship landed at aboard Henry O’Hare’s Hanger, Tristan went to his cabin and slowly removed his RemLok, garbing himself in his Dominator suit, complete with tiger-head helm. A Manticore Oppressor and Karma C-44 clicked into their mounts on the backpack; he drew the pistol and gazed at it. Sighed. He wouldn’t normally consider giving a weapon a name, but privately, he had named this gun ‘Jordy’. In honour of the late, great Jordanna Frost, for whom plasma pistols had been a favourite sidearm. He found himself wondering if she would have been offended by his naming of the gun, and decided, probably not. He still recalled the one time he had met her, aboard Obsidian Orbital. Spoke to her just to confirm who she was, handed her a package, and walked off. Too tongue-tied and star-struck to say anything else! Not worthy to breathe the same air as her! His heart thumped as he recalled the encounter. And, damn, she was as pretty as he’d heard she was. Not that he would ever tell anyone that. Especially Rose...
Six hours later. As the voice of the detachment leader announcing victory boomed in his ears, he stared down at the body of the man he had just killed. The pistol suddenly seemed terribly heavy. Vapour from blood and bodily fluids spiralled from the gaping hole the Tormentor had punched through the fallen soldier’s suit. Holstering the gun, he trudged slowly towards the LZ, where he and the other troopers would await dropships to fly them out of here. Past the slowly freezing remains of combatants hit by rockets, blasted into unrecognisable chunks of meat and metal. Sobered by the slaughter, his lust for vengeance had cooled, for the moment, but there were still foes to eradicate. He knew he couldn’t just stop now. After all, how many lives had he taken in his career as a pilot? Thousands. So much fragile human flesh spilled into the void...even if it had been done in the name of justice.
Back on the station, he cashed in his combat bonds and retreated to his cabin aboard Devourer. Lying on the couch, sipping a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, he found himself trying to recall something he had read once. A poem. A cold reminder of the horror and futility of war, born of a conflict on ancient Earth. Picking up a datapad, he logged into the local net and searched for the piece he sought. Finally, it appeared, and he read it slowly, and once again. Finished his wine and retreated to bed, the words of Wilfred Owen swirling in his head.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.