"No, I beg you... Argh!"
Squatting down, a cultist in a white skull-shaped mask struck the pleading Jedi in the throat with a straightened palm. Sharp claw-thimbles pierced the soft flesh, staining the killer's hand in various shades of blue. The Nautolan stared at his executioner for a few more seconds before falling silent forever.
In his empty eyes, the fear and gloom that filled the planet were imprinted. The black iris reflected the blue lights of the killer's eyes, who slowly rose to his full height and took a deep breath—filled with death and despair.
"Good... very good..."
Stepping softly across the gray earth, which resembled a mixture of ash and dust, the wearer of the skull-mask bypassed the corpses of the Jedi, scattered around like broken dolls. Carefully examining every wound, every dripping drop of blood, the stranger strolled with relish, as if trying to soak in the atmosphere of the slaughter that had unfolded around him.
Reaching the center of the battle, he stretched his hand forward. Closing his eyes, tilting his head to the sky, the killer reverently gripped a greenish staff topped with a living flame of emerald color. Running his hand over the rough surface, the man exhaled light wisps of bluish smoke from his mouth.
"So many deaths... could this day get any better?"
Looking around, the wearer of the skull-mask listened to something and, with a satisfied grunt, pulled the staff out of the Jedi's body with a squelch—deforming and mangling the chest of the poor soul, whose dead face stared into the darkened heavens.
"Now, now, now... who do we have here? A killer and a Shadow, creeping toward me? Or has a little mouse frozen in fear in the gloom?" Walking around the carnage, leaning on the staff every second step, the man swayed jauntily, humming softly under his breath. As he approached, the rustling grew louder, and its creator clearly realized they were being followed. "A trapped, gray, sweet little mouse... you will delight me with your scream."
A sudden lunge to the side parried a lightsaber strike. A young girl opened her deep blue eyes in terror. Covered in the marks of battle, caked in mud and blood, she barely managed to deflect the executioner's lazy and mocking thrusts.
Holding the sword with both hands, breathing heavily through her mouth, the blonde blew away strands of hair sticking to her mouth and eyes, feverishly calculating her next steps.
Falling silent abruptly, the man gripped the staff with both hands and, with a series of fast and precise attacks, dealt a crushing defeat to his opponent. Green flame erupted with every strike, searing and demoralizing the Jedi.
Falling face-first into the mud, dropping her lightsaber, she watched through half-closed, trembling eyelids as the grim figure in hideous bone armor approached.
The footsteps echoed in her ears; the enemy's feet were getting closer...
A terrible crack rolled through her brain in horror. The blonde's eyes were fixed on the broken lightsaber. Pierced by the staff's pommel, the blade—which had served her faithfully for long years—was broken.
"No..."
"I've changed my mind, little mouse," the man said, tossing the fragments of the Jedi weapon aside. He squatted down and gripped his victim's face with sharp claws. Digging into the soft, fair skin, the claw-thimbles left bloody tracks, from which dark spots immediately spread—paralyzing the facial muscles and bringing the first echoes of pain. "Your fear... so captivating, so sweet... I shall keep you for myself, just like the other two. You will be the price your Order pays for its arrogance."
Straightening up, the man easily lifted the girl with him. Holding her with one outstretched arm, digging his claws into the face of the panicking and weeping victim, he purred with affection, already imagining how he would spend long weeks in the company of his new "friends."
"But before I deal with you," he said, squeezing his palm and leaving deep jagged wounds, as the executioner brought the face of the surrendered Jedi closer to his own, "tell me your name."
"Vosa... Komari Vosa."
***
"Next."
The voice from the auditorium boomed down the entire corridor. The huddling students and applicants looked once more with fear at the high steel doors, behind which the mystical examiner was hidden.
The Baobab Merchant Fleet Academy on Mende was full of life. Spacious corridors were filled with applicants dreaming of future space travel and becoming true captains of their own ships.
Sentient beings from all over the galaxy tried to enroll here for a chance to become part of something bigger—the Merchant Fleet.
But it wasn't just the prospect of becoming a trader that lured the younger generation. At the Academy, there was always a chance to transfer to the service of a very famous unit that had been keeping the peace on the planets of the Outer Rim for a couple of decades now.
Gilad Pellaeon was one such person. Young, ambitious, and quick to make questionable decisions—though such things were more a problem of age than character. Born on Corellia and raised on Coruscant, this young man was completely confident in himself.
Sitting in front of the entrance to the Baobab Merchant Fleet Academy auditorium with excitement in his eyes and the drive of youth in his heart. Around him, boys and girls bustled, many of whom had clearly come from remote planets, with vivid, sometimes strange accents and even more eccentric manners or outfits.
Some looked far more like criminals or pirates, while others looked like aspiring clowns, dressed in gaudy, colorful costumes.
Gilad, however, stood out noticeably with a sense of superiority. He was certain that his Corellian charm and steadfast character were worthy of becoming part of the Helldivers squad—an elite group of mercenaries known for their victories and fearlessness in fighting pirates.
Since childhood, like any boy, he had listened with an open mouth to the stories of captains arriving from the fringes, ship crews, or simply those in the know—those who possessed any information at all.
Having practically grown up on stories and tales of the fight against slavery and piracy, Gilad saw no other fate for himself than to become a captain of this strange organization. His presence here seemed self-evident to him... unlike most of the weaklings around him. All these provincials who had ended up on the edge of the galaxy could not compete with his persistence and desire to become a naval officer.
"Do they really not even know that the Academy isn't their only chance?" Gilad thought, looking at their uncertain faces. He was overcome by a feeling of invulnerability: he knew he had to be here, and nothing could stop that.
When he finally entered the auditorium, he was met by a stern young examiner in a dark uniform. With a scar on his face, a white mesh spreading across his caramel skin, the man met the next overconfident rookie with a piercing gaze.
In reality, deep in the examiner's eyes, there was an indifference so frank and natural that it even threw Pellaeon off balance.
Faltering for a moment, the future captain gave a strictly military nod, waiting for a command, and only after receiving a permissive nod in return did he sit down on the chair.
Moving closer to the table, on which lay a lone tablet with a dark screen, Gilad closed his eyes for a moment, reaching for the technology, and gathering his courage, began to answer the questions.
His high tone and flawless answers blended wonderfully with his charismatic appearance. The exam was going easily and without problems; he felt that this academy would be the first step toward his greatness.
However, when it came time to reveal the results, the examiner began to study Gilad's documents. Pellaeon noticed how the man's face gradually became more tense. Finally, the examiner spoke in a stern and slightly mocking tone:
"The documents are forged."
Gilad instantly felt the ground slip from under his feet. He was only 15, and one could only enroll in the Academy after 18. His heart beat faster, and fear was immediately replaced by anger and despair. How could he have ended up in such a situation?
Having spent his last money on the flight here and on the forged documents—he had "bet it all" when choosing his future path in life... and was it going to end like this, before it had even really begun?
"No, that won't happen!"
And Pellaeon was not about to give up. His nature, full of self-confidence and persistence, called him to act.
"Listen," he began, trying to suppress the panic in his voice, "I know I'm only 15, but I have all the qualities to become the best naval officer. I don't just want to study here—I have to! I hate pirates, I dream of ships..." Feeling a lack of air, Pellaeon swallowed thick saliva, continuing to look just above the examiner's forehead. "And that's exactly why I dream of joining your squad. I'm ready to prove my abilities from day one. Give me a chance!"
Fire burned in his eyes, and it could not leave the examiner indifferent.
Pellaeon literally captivated him with his passionate speech. Seconds stretched on, but in the end, the examiner shook his head and said:
"You've got fire, kid." Opening the necessary page, the man immediately stamped it, then returned the documents to Gilad. "I don't know if you'll be able to handle it, but it seems you really want this. Fine, I'll give you a chance. But remember: if you don't live up to our expectations, I won't hesitate when it's time to send you home."
Gilad felt the tension leave him, and joy overwhelmed him. It was only the first step, but he was full of determination and delight... yes, indeed. The boy could barely contain himself from jumping for joy right then and there.
"Oh, and by the way," while Gilad tried to leave the office with a wooden gait, hiding his true feelings as much as possible, a mocking voice caught him from behind, "next time you forge documents—at least check that they spelled your name right."
***
"I was watching the HoloNet recently," Billy Booker said, tearing a leg off an animal roasting over the fire and biting into it with gusto, letting the meat juices run down his chin in a couple of streaks. Swallowing the tender morsel with delight, he let out a purr like a large, satisfied cat. "This is just pure bliss..."
"Dac, what's up with the HoloNet?" Peeling a local fruit, Salco turned away from the quiet radio broadcast and looked at his team. Seeing the total lack of understanding on the face of the squad's oldest member, the Jabiimite suppressed a weary sigh. "You started telling us..."
"Ah-h. Oh! Right, I remember now. I was watching a documentary recently about the First Pantoran, and they were talking about religion. And someone said: 'Of course, Abutocracy is a fictional religion'..."
A new round of crunching and satisfied groans interrupted the story. The meat of the Narglatch—a local apex predator that, incidentally, inhabited many planets with diverse flora and fauna—was simply amazing.
"Dammit, Booker, do we have to pull everything out of you with pliers?" Standing up and brushing crumbs of snow that had blown into the cave off his shoulder, Myrkr sat down nearby, taking the meat off the fire and moving it away from the veteran. Seeing the dissatisfaction and hidden threat on the man's face, "Reed" made an obscene gesture before scooting aside, hiding behind the final member of the quartet. "This wasn't cooked just for you. We all took the brutes down together, but you're eating alone."
"Oh, come on. We minced enough of those brutes to feed a whole planet." Pleading, Booker tried to reclaim a piece of the juicy meat but failed, receiving a raw cut instead of a finished portion, which he'd have to roast over the fire all over again. "Well, shit... Why is it always me?"
"Because you're the only one whose hands aren't growing out of his ass when it comes to cooking," Salco interrupted his friend with a coarse laugh. The others joined in the joking, and soon the whole team was shaking the cave walls with their thunderous laughter. "Alright... So what about Abutocracy... or whatever that crap is called?"
"Yeah, yeah... So they said it was a fictional religion, and I got to thinking..."
"A miracle. Nonsense. Are you sick?" the teammates replied in various voices, and even the eccentric flamethrower operator—who had been staring blankly at the wall until then—put in his two cents, triggering a new wave of laughter.
"Little shits..."
"Alright, stop grumbling." Poking the fire with a stick, turning and stirring the coals, Salco looked over the team with a kind smile, accepting a piece of juicy local beast meat from a comrade's hands. "Finish your story."
"There's nothing to finish. I just thought..." Slowly rotating a makeshift spit, Billy sniffled, shivering slightly as an icy wind penetrated the cave and tried to crawl under his armor. "Aren't all religions fictional, though?"
"O-o-oh, well, you can't settle that without a bottle and—"
Interrupting "Reed's" answer with a wave of his hand, the squad leader activated his transmitter and listened intently to the incoming orders. For nearly a minute, the team sat in dead silence, with only the quiet voice from the earpiece breaking it, struggling against the wild howling of the winds outside.
"Get up, rest is over," Sharous was the first to rise after finishing the message, shaking bits of fat and char from his hands. Pulling his helmet onto his head, Salco grabbed his blaster rifle and snapped it into its magnetic mount—the first to head for the exit, listening with one ear as ordered chaos grew within the stone walls.
The first to leave the cozy cavern, the native of the rainy planet looked around the area with disgust. Having grown up in the warm tropics and pervasive water, Salco hated this new, distant world more than anyone—the world that had deigned to work with the Helldivers.
An icy wasteland, snow-capped mountain peaks, frozen lakes and rivers...
It seemed as if nothing lived here, and only rare inhabitants, like the Narglatch, would try to survive in this snowy filth. But that turned out not to be the case...
Not a couple of seconds passed before the rest followed him out of the cave. Gathering around their commander, the soldiers scanned the surroundings with practiced eyes. Unlike Sharous, however, they paid much more attention to what was happening on the ground rather than in the sky.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of Helldivers roamed the snowy clearing, trampling the fresh snow and dragging the corpses of local natives—who had attacked them at the first opportunity—into piles.
Several Titans, supported by Exoskeletons, were dragging actual "seines" filled with dozens, if not hundreds, of local corpses. The war machines struggled through snowy paths that couldn't be cleared fast enough.
The heavy tread of walkers echoed through the area, and every so often, the shouts of operators rang out in the air as their expensive Titans and Exoskeletons got stuck in the ice—having fallen through or slipped.
Letting one of these convoys pass—hauling the corpses of savages from all around—Salco looked with disgust at the carcass of one of the monsters that had fallen to the roadside.
Covered in clotted and frozen blood, the freak fell with a thud at the team's feet, kicking fresh snow into the air.
Huge, four-eyed monsters, entirely covered in white fur... They had refused to leave the planet peacefully and quietly, so their fate was sealed.
A roar sounded over the Helldivers' heads. A flash of an explosion, a crash, and rolls of lightning...
Jabiimite torpedoes, used to disperse stormy skies, were just the thing for Orto Plutonia. The clouds overhead parted for a moment, and high above, the image of an Adjudicator flashed, firing three blue salvos somewhere beyond the horizon.
"No matter how many times I see it, it's mesmerizing every time." Approaching the team, a blue humanoid bowed low, then beamed at them with the happy smile of a man completely satisfied with life. "Mr. Sharous, Commander Altman asked you to ensure my safety during the visit..."
"I'm aware. Don't worry, sir. We'll do it in the best possible way." Shifting the neutral gaze of his helmet to the dead savage, Salco patted the holster of his blaster pistol. "Soon you will be able to raise the flag of the Assembly on this planet."
***
Read early on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan