A glimpse of futility

The OgaLopke are peerless. But on this world, extinction hunts them. Who will win?

Chapter 1 Day Eighteen.0 - Gamarrah Prosecution

Oluwander stepped to the side and swung. His blade sliced cleanly through the mechano-arachnoid's carapace exposing the pulpy interior with its glossy bulging pumps and stinking, brackish fluids. The thing stuttered, bladed forelimbs freezing and then it slumped to the ground, its stalked eyes still tracking Oluwander's movements.

Oluwander did not stop his stamping forward march. His boots sank into the mud and slurry with every step, but his reinforced musculature and sinew and the growl of armor servos bore him forward. His lungs sucked in the oxygen low air. The inbuilt respirator augments in his helm and armor enriched the thin gruel and added chemical enhancements. He raised his shield as he moved, bracing for the next challenger. His fellows to either side did the same and shouted out their battle cry as they did. All together. All in unison as they had been bred and trained.

This operation on battlefield Four-Two-Two was supposed to have occupied them no more than six days. They were the OgaLopke. No campaign, however difficult had ever taken them more than the span of a single day to complete. This was the hardest the Federation of Laa had ever conceived of. And so, six days had been allotted. Six days as measured on Sol-Earth.

Yet here they were. An entire company of OgaLopke. Ten thousand warriors. Deployed onto the Gamarrah colony world of Four-Two-Two eighteen days ago with an expectation of a victory parade twelve days ago. No victory at all. Instead, this grinding never-ending forward and retreat against a foe that seemed to materialize out of nothingness, formed into an unstoppable, roiling horror of chitin and mechanically driven bladed fury. But not a hot fury. A cold one. Never a cry, merely the skittering scramble of too many legs and the keening whistle of powerfully driven edged weapons. And with every encounter, every thrust, every retreat - the loss of dozens of men. Oluwander's helm blinked up a counter in hues of green and yellow. Four thousand remained. The rest were dead or dying. Left where they fell, stood or slumped. Locked in their armor, bleeding out in silence.

Oluwander cast a quick glance overhead, searching for the telltale bloom of a rescue drop ship's engine burn. But nothing. A pipping in his helm and he continued his march, even as a cool voice came over the embedded aural comm bead. "Break engagement, collect at tactical Three-Alpha. Anticipating remote scheduled equipment drop in twenty-one minutes. Mark." The comm bead hissed briefly then went silent.

Oluwander contemplated that this deployment was possibly the denouement and demise of the most vaunted force within the galaxy. The Gamarrah, or the Species as they called themselves had not previously been hostile. They had been encountered on many worlds. And always passive, if ultimately uncommunicative. But then a decade ago that passivity had turned into an almost instant aggression. Overnight, they stirred suddenly from slumber and marched in formations into towns and villages and outposts on every planet they were found. They visited a slaughter on all creatures they encountered. Sentient or not, none were spared. Not even crops were permitted to survive. The Gamarrah burned everything.

And from each world they burned, they sent up a signal. A simple message. It read, in standard Federation glyphs: "Send your best. Send the OgaLopke. The Species waits." The signals were followed by coordinates. The coordinates were for Four-Two-Two.

Oluwander reflected that perhaps the politicians on Sol-Earth had not considered that The Species might in fact be a challenge not to be engaged with lightly. But then again - that was the entire reason for the OgaLopke. The impossible challenge.

Oluwander's mind cast itself back to his mission briefing aboard the Bringer class capital ship in orbit. "In these thousand years of our Federation, nothing has ever challenged us and escaped the terminal wrath of our might." The briefing officer in a plain gray uniform with black chevrons on either arm stood before the ranked and utterly still armored giants of the OgaLopke. His dais allowed him to look down slightly at the rows of troops, each man with their helmet turned up slightly, hands fisted, and arms crossed before them.

"This species." The officer spat the word. "This Gamarrah have raised hostile banner, claw and weapon against the Federation. We shall tear down their banner, remove claw and weapon and pacify them. We are that blade, hammer and tong. We bring order." None of the assembled troops responded to that. Not a movement amongst the serried ranks. That was entirely typical of the OgaLopke. Hyperbolic comment was nothing more than a statement of what they actually did. No response to the obvious was ever needed.

And, further in keeping with OgaLopke tradition, there was little more than that by way of briefing. Certainly, the chemical and hypnogogic download of instruction into his mind, but no more words were said that Oluwander could recall. "None had ever raised a hostile banner with such a cold assurance. That should have been the cautionary message. That any would challenge the Federation was itself the warning was it not?" The thought slipped through Oluwander's mind, uncoiling with an unsettling oil and grease of an unpleasant truth.

As Oluwander completed the internal discord, his body continued to surge forward. In the periphery of his vision, on the left he saw one of his own barracks mates go down, bisected with a clinical precision right at the waist. The legs stepped forward under the urge of momentum and the upper half toppled backwards displaying a pinkish hued interior, loops of intestine and slops of organs cascading to the ground.

Oluwander paused his movement and momentarily released his hold on his sword, sweeping up his holstered assault pistol to fire a burst of burning plasma into the Gamarrah that had so thoroughly disemboweled his squad mate.

The plasma struck with a vicious hiss and then burned a hole right through the churning creature. It spun a turn, vapor spewing out of the plasma hole as its innards cooked. Abruptly and silently, it exploded. The thin atmosphere carrying just a soft crump to Oluwander's aural pickups.

Oluwander holstered the pistol, casting a brief final glance at the dead OgaLopke. "Elemental Oyander, squad eight." Oluwander's left optical overlay briefly flashed the name. Oluwander sucked in a draught of air and readied his shield again, stopping his forward slog as he prepared to disengage.

A man to his right, an identically sized and armored giant slammed his shield down into the ground driving it deep and then hunched down to the lip of the massive chunk of metal. Oluwander followed suit, lowering himself with a brief squeal of servos as he too punched his shield into the mud and muck at his feet. All about him and in an exacting precise line, the others of his company did the same. In seconds, a massive metal fence had been erected, its elements overlapping as if it had been manufactured there and then. Moments later a brief pipping in all the comm beads and then a simple command. "Throw."

At that, from somewhere behind Oluwander, a hundred blackened spheres suddenly sailed overhead to impact amongst the surging tide of chitin and metal that crashed and lapped with silent hunger at the shield wall.

"A good toss." Oluwander thought to himself with detachment as he watched the grenades fly and braced for the inevitable cataclysmic fury of their explosion.

With a uniform flash of explosion, the spheres ignited in midair, the explosions compressing the Gamarrah front down into the ground, ripping individuals to pieces and flash melting scores of the creatures.

Oluwander's shield trembled as he hunched down behind it, debris, rock and body parts slammed into it as the extemporaneous artillery strike raged through the advancing tide, stopping them with its heat, pressure and concussive force.

As he listened to the rattle of war's detritus against his shield, Oluwander turned his helm to his left and locked gaze with his comrade there. Another nameless giant to any who did not know what to look for. But to Oluwander, it was Genus Twelve, commander of the Twelfth Swifts. The block of characters stamped to Genus's right shoulder guard were enough to announce him to any and all of the OgaLopke. Oluwander nodded and gestured with his left hand, massive and blocky in its metal-alloy gauntlet. He signaled his greeting, fingers moving through the old sigils. Genus responded too, with a brief flicker of his hand. It was missing two fingers and so the message was slower to send. Choppier. "A fine day this. A day that we shall study should we live."

Genus was always solemn. All things were to be analyzed by his martial mind. That was why he commanded the Twelfth. Famed for their impossibly rapid tactics. But today, that solemnity was tinged with regret. The finger movements told that story.

"We will live. The retreat has been sounded. Another day shall pass." Oluwander's fingers moved again in rapid signage.

Genus merely nodded and braced further as the explosions continued.

Abruptly, the explosions ceased. The pressure on Oluwander's shield eased. The barrage had done its work, and the Gamarrah as often before had themselves retreated. Standing fully to look over his shield, Oluwander was witness to a carpet of melted and destroyed carapaces. Hundreds, perhaps more. The hyperbaric fury of the Federation mark eleven grenade was a terrifying tool of destruction.

He pulled his shield out of the muck, as did all of his cohort which, needing no further orders, swung about as a group and began a crushing run to the gather point.

Chapter 2 -- Day Eighteen.1 -- Gamarrah Prosecution