Death of a Friend, Chapter 4
29 Aug 2022MdN
Date: Late July 3230Location: Somewhere in the Alioth system
Setting: It's the height of Alioth's war of independence
Chapter 4
"So, a rescue mission?" the Captain asked with little enthusiasm.
"Essentially, yes," Richard confirmed. "There were nearly a hundred townsfolk hiding out in the temple when I left."
"And you reckon probably two full brigades of Imperial troops laying seige?" he screwed up his nose at that thought. "They're lost man. They're lost before we even leave here."
"The rebel fighters have enough ammo and food in that temple to hold out for a week," he lied. "They can't surrender to General Ladin, he'll massacre them."
It was as if a light had flicked on behind the Captain's eyes. Suddenly alert and listening. Out the corner of Richard's eye he noticed one or two others drifting closer to listen too.
'What just happened?' he wondered.
He continued, sensing a change of heart without knowing why. "We've had those Imps tied up over there for months, without those guys fighting, this lot would be facing another division at Wicca's." He highlighted the troops embarking for the next major offensive. "We can't just abandon them now."
"Yeah, yeah," the Captain dismissed all that with a shake of the hand. "Did you say General Ladin?"
Imperial General Joseph Ladin was considered something of a strategic genius among those who served with him. Among Alliance troops he was that psychotic bogeyman of their nightmares, regularly using civilian populations as shields, and murdering prisoners if the tide of battle turned against him. Going up against Ladin was like facing off against the devil. The Admiral prefered to skirt his forces, poking Imperial defences elsewhere for a greater chance of success. It was recognised that for the average infanteer, morale crumbled at the thought of facing his forces.
But Captain Campbell was no ordinary infantry commander. None of the men who served under him were average infanteers. Z Force was an elite recon unit that went in to battle knowing they would win. Defeat was not in their lexicon.
"That's right, General Ladin," Richard confirmed.
Just two words, one name, had turned exhausted troopers into excited wolves. The small group surrounding them swelled as that name was whispered around. These were tired men, scarred with the wounds of hard battle, rest long over due; but now they glared at their leader willing him to give the right answer. Campbell looked around for his Staff Sargent, and found him helping to unload bags down the access ramp.
"Hey Staff," the biggest man of all dropped his end of the bag he was carrying to face his commander. His carrying partner cursed him under his breath as the extra weight dragged him to the floor.
"Wassup chief?"
"This chap needs some samaritans for an urgent evac." The veteran's face dropped as quickly as had the bag he was carrying.
"Chief, they're exhausted," he replied shaking his head with a frown as he turned back to the bag. "I doubt ..."
"General Ladin has a rebel militia surrounded." That stopped the Staff Sergeant mid lift, his partner was ready this time. Staff turned back to the Captain again. Richard saw the same reaction that he'd noticed in the Captain. The big man straightened up, looking even taller than he had just a few seconds before. A smile slowly replaced the frown. The small group standing around watched the telepathic messages transmitted across the landing bay between officer and NCO. The anticipation was palpable. They knew what was coming.
"I'd best see who fancies a jolly then, Chief."
Richard watched in amazement as these tired men lit up with smiles.
"Stonger Together!" one yelled.
"Stonger! Stonger! Stonger!" they all replied in unison.
It had become the rallying cry of the fledgling Alliance military. The unexpected contribution to the independence movement of a retired professor of ancient earth languages during a popular chat show in those early days of civil unrest. The production team were aiming for "edgy" with their choice of guests that evening. They achieved it, but not in the way they'd planned.
The witty professor, on the show to promote his latest novel, shared the TV sofa with a pair of prominent Federation and Empire politicians. His appearance became a poisoned chalice. Their squabble took over the entire half hour show and demonstrated why the people of Alioth were showing their discontent with their destructive, colonialist overlords.
As the show came to its close, the host turned to the professor and apologised:
"I'm so sorry professor, we didn't get chance to promote your new book. You have thirty seconds, please, the floor is yours."
With a knowing smile, he'd held his book to the camera. The two word title standing proud. The first, a long forgotten word of an old Germanic language without an adequate modern day translation. 'More Powerful' might be close, but not really adequate. The word was more about the endurance of overcoming an impossible obstacle, and so was the story.
"An apt demonstration," said the professor, motioning to the politicians beside him, "why Aliothians would indeed be: Stonger Together."
Nervous applause came from those in the studio audience who had read Stonger Together. Everyone else, guests and host included, were left wondering at the professor's meaning. Not for long though.
The novel with the odd title by the crusty old professor became an overnight sensation. Was it a prophetic coincidence of an innocent story mis-interpreted for a troubled time; or a subtle under lying message that the old professor had intended all along? He carried that secret with him to the grave a few months later.
Either way, it had catalysed support for an independent Alioth, free from the shackles of the destructive super powers using it as a pawn in their intragalatic game of draughts.
The military's rank and file adopted it as their rallying call, and their officers were wise enough to see its value.
"Stonger! Stonger! Stonger!"
The cry resonated around the landing bay, as those boarding for Wicca assumed it was their own. An instant esprit de corps the Admiral could only have dreamt of.
"If we win this bloody war," Campbell muttered to no one in particular, "that old professor deserves a medal." "Best get that kit back on the bird, Staff," he shouted in the direction of the loading ramp.
"Right oh, chief," laughed the Staff sergeant as the newly inspired men jogged over to lend a hand.
"And get that pilot to stick around," he pointed to the cockpit of the Type 6 idling on the pad. "We're going to need that barge." He received a thumbs up in recognition.
Then, turning to Richard: "I don't suppose we have air support, do we?"
"We have my Cobra," Richard replied, "that'll do the job."
"A Cobra isn't exactly what I had in mind."
"No," he agreed, "this Cobra certainly isn't what you have in mind, she'll surprise you."
"Well too late now anyway, it'll have to do," said Campbell, "we're not going to get anything else, they can't spare anything with the Wicca Op running."