Author's Note: Sorry for the delay with this one. More chapters coming soon!


Numor, 2.30 AVY:

TK-5630 set the delay on his thermal detonator, then lobbed it around a street corner. A laser almost caught his hand as it briefly passed within sight of the enemy. He withdrew and huddled with his squadmates behind the pockmarked mass of a commercial building, waiting for the detonator to do its work.

Moments passed, loud and raucous with the din of weapons fire all around him, and at last there was an explosion out of sight, bits of rubble and sand flying from the location of what had so recently been a slugthrower emplacement. The position was neutralized, now; his platoon could advance another block or two until it ran into the next nest of indigenous resistance. This was urban warfare, street to street, a thousand small-scale clashes adding up to a contest for control of a whole city.

Corporal TK-5111 peered around the corner. Nobody shot at him, surprisingly, and he reported back to the four men under his command:

"We've scattered them! Let's go, troopers!"

He waved forward, and the tattered remnants of Second Squad advanced. TK-5630 ran low, clutching his blaster with both hands, and the limited peripheral vision of his helmet offered him a view of things directly ahead of him. There could be an AT-AT hiding to his left or right and he wouldn't know. But of course, that only served to underscore Imperial doctrine: each stormtrooper was utterly dependent on his fellows.

The squad—really a fireteam at this point—spread out on the adjacent street, two troopers covering each wall while TK-5630 advanced down the center, past the pile of corpses, ruptured sandbags, and twisted metal that marked the former slugthrower position. He allowed himself a measure of pride for the accuracy and deadliness of his grenade throw; he was serving the Emperor well, just as he had sworn to do when he'd left his old life behind and joined the men in white.

Then the enemy opened fire from behind a wrecked vehicle, maybe twenty meters away. TK-5630 went to ground immediately. There was enough rubble and detritus scattered in the street to offer a modicum of protection, and he raised his rifle to return fire, even though he couldn't get a clear shot at anyone. Sometimes it was enough to spray plasma at the enemy and make them keep their heads down.

There was another squad nearby, with a lightweight repeating blaster—they had the same idea. Red bolts met red beams, crashed against the vehicle the natives were using for cover, sent a man sprawling on the ground. TK-5630 took this opportunity to advance another couple of meters, to a promising-looking stone pillar which had toppled over from what appeared to be a government building. Ornate windows and a golden, double-headed eagle looked out over him.

"Anyone have a smoke grenade?" radioed TK-5202, hiding in the frame of a shop window on the left-hand side of the street.

"TK-5676 here. Negative."

"TK-5630. I'm out." Ammunition was running low for everybody; they were about eight hours into the Battle of Numor, and so far, enemy resistance had not collapsed as anticipated. If anything it had grown more tenacious. The starport had fallen, allowing for the uncontested landings of the second and third waves, but the nearby city remained a stronghold—the elimination of which fell on the shoulders of his unit, the 54th Regiment.

"We'll do without," said TK-5111. "5630, 5202, I want you to inch forward along the center. With the other squad here that should take some pressure off of you. 5676, 5780—with me, left flank."

TK-5780, on the right, had to cross to fulfill that order. He was halfway there, by TK-5630, when a laser beam finally caught him in the arm and sent him crashing to the ground. The man's helmet only amplified his agonized grunts.

"I'm hit!" he radioed. TK-5630 looked over again and saw a ragged, bloody bite taken out of white armor, with the limb hanging limply below. These lasers were nothing to be scoffed at; they were stronger, probably, than the Empire's own blasters.

"Affirmative, 5780," TK-5111 said. "Hold position and await medical attention."

Stormtroopers cared little for their own—winning the battle came first. If TK-5780 survived, however, he would be rewarded handsomely by the Empire for his sacrifice.

TK-5630 needed no such material comforts, though. His only aspiration was to die fulfilling the Emperor's grand plan for the galaxy.

He saw more hostile soldiers moving forward, behind the wreck of the car. The forces of the Empire might well have been outnumbered in this part of the city. For a moment, he felt something resembling unease as he contemplated an enemy counterattack, but then he heard footsteps behind him—heavy, mechanical footsteps. Twin blaster bolts shot out over his shoulder, detonating among the enemy. When he turned he saw an AT-ST advancing among two full squads of stormtroopers. Their armor was clean and polished, identifying them immediately as part of the latest wave to be committed to combat.

"Our armor is moving forward!" TK-5111 said over the comm-net. "Keep up the pressure, troopers, help is here! Center group, I want you to advance to that barricade on the right, and prepare to assault!"

With a finger he indicated a pile of sandbags that must have been a half-completed and unused defensive position. It would work adequately as cover, however, and as a base from which to attack the enemy behind the wrecked car.

TK-5630 stood from cover, ignoring the bleeding, moaning trooper only a few paces away, and with his comrade TK-5202 he bolted for the barricade, laser flashes bright in his field of vision.

As he ran he realized he was the farthest forward out of any of the stormtroopers on this street. Somehow, he always ended up at the vanguard, and he wouldn't have had it any other way.

Numor, 2.30 AVY:

"They're coming," said the private, peering down the long, level roadway with a pair of magnoculars.

"How many?" asked Lieutenant Jeal Varon. He crouched in the ditch with the rest of the ragged and grim-faced command squad, eight men total. The rains came heavily this time of year; his blue-grey PDF armor was thoroughly coated in mud, and his knees were submerged outright.

"Three transports. I'd estimate eight soldiers in each."

"More of the repulsors?"
"Yes, sir. They are very fast, they'll be here soon." The private lowered the magnoculars, and retreated deeper into the roadside ditch so as not to be seen. Some scattered bushes provided cover, but they were still dangerously exposed. The flat farmland in these parts provided little concealment.

"All right." He spoke over the intra-platoon vox link: "Sergeant Keyl, ready the missile launcher. We will fire only after they have passed—I suspect their armor is weakest towards the rear."

"Is that really a good idea, sir?" asked the platoon sergeant, Floy, flat on his stomach on the upwards slope, armed with a lasgun while Varon had only a laspistol. "They will have plenty of opportunities to spot us as they close the distance."

"It's our best bet." He gestured at the mud. "Besides, with all this crap on us, we'll blend in well, won't we?"

Floy didn't laugh. Varon grabbed the magnoculars from the private and did some looking for himself. There they were, about a kilometer away, boxy grey vehicles speeding along atop nothing but air.

He voxed: "Missile launcher ready?"

"Ready," reported the other sergeant.

Next he spoke to the vox operator, the link to Captain Harzel and the other platoons. "Inform command that we have sighted the enemy, and are preparing to engage."

"Aye, sir!" The man spoke quietly into the mouthpiece and relayed the news.

There were just two squads under his command, formed from those members of the platoon who had survived the fighting on the Ligurian Peninsula. Floy led the command squad and Keyl led the one stationed on the far side of the road. The rest of Third Company was further back, preparing defensive positions, while Varon's platoon had the unenviable task of ambushing the invaders as they approached.

It had been about fifty hours since the enemy made planetfall. During that time, most of the major cities had fallen, despite a creditable performance by the PDF; now the remnants conducted a desperate defense out in the countryside.

"All right. Hit the lead transport to stop the others. Nobody moves a muscle until that rocket is live, you hear me?"

"Affirmative, sir."

The transports grew larger and larger in his field of view. Ten troopers per vehicle made for thirty total, supported by what looked to be dorsal laser turrets on each craft—more firepower than he had. Man for man, these people were scarcely better than his own soldiers, but they had superior mobility and air support, and that made all the difference.

What were they? They were human, he knew that much—on the first day of the battle he had removed the helmet from one of their dead, and been shocked to see a face very much like his own—and they did not appear to worship the Emperor. That made them heretics. But, unlike most heretics, they were meticulously organized, and they used weapons and equipment that were all their own, instead of making do with stolen Imperial articles.

His best guess was that some benighted empire, lost since Old Night, had finally ventured into known space and happened to make its first stop at Numor. They were carving out a fiefdom from his home; Varon's job was to resist, until the forces of the Imperium at large came to the rescue. The astropathic distress signals had already been sent. There was no telling whether help was weeks, months, or years away, and it would likely come after he was already dead.

"Look, sir!" Sergeant Floy pointed at the convoy. Actually—he was pointing ahead of the convoy, at a small black sphere that raced down the road maybe two meters above the ground.

"Must be their equivalent to a servo-skull," the lieutenant said. "Everybody down!"

His command squad buried themselves deeper in the mud. Nevertheless, they were nine men in bulky armor that did not quite match their environment, and the bushes were thin here, in this watery ditch on the edge of a potato field, so they would most likely still be visible to the enemy probe.

It hummed as it flew past, seemingly taking no notice of them. Varon allowed himself to believe that his platoon had gone unseen. He continued to believe that until the convoy lurched to a halt, about forty meters away, and began disgorging troops.

"Shit," he breathed. "Shit, they saw us!"

The lead vehicle opened fire. Its turret started shooting first, followed by hull-mounted lasers after the whole craft maneuvered into position. Explosions blasted the ground, lofted plumes of mud into the air, sent men flying. Varon himself was covered in a thick layer of dirt, shielding him from the bombardment's sheer unabated intensity of light and noise. It continued for what felt like minutes. The blasts stopped after a while, though given how hard his ears rang it was difficult to tell.

He sat up and wiped mud off his face. Some had gotten in his eyes, too, but he blinked it out. Around him lay the smouldering, dismembered corpses of his command squad. Floy was nowhere to be seen, though there were several candidates as to which body or piece of a body might be his, and the vox operator, doubled over with guts hanging out, was certainly dead, the equipment he carried similarly mutilated. Varon was cut off from Third Company. Maybe they would hear the explosions and gunfire—they were only a few kilometers away—but he could not count on them arriving in time.

He looked through the clearing smoke at the enemy. They were advancing, quickly at that. The repuslorcraft were side-by side now, rather than in a line, and about thirty white-armored troopers were dismounted and taking potshots at the would-be ambushers' positions. Varon ducked as a red plasma bolt nearly caught him in the shoulder.

He had to at least make contact with the missile launcher team, on the other side of the road. Assuming they'd survived. He dug around through the mud and blood for his handheld vox, which had become separated from him during the bombardment.

"Sergeant Keyl, can you hear me?" he shouted into the handheld vox. "Sergeant Keyl, respond!"

Nothing. The enemy's guns were powerful, they had virtually destroyed his understrength platoon in the span of minutes. Then:

"Lieutenant! It's Willis." One of the riflemen. "We've got a handful over here, sir."

"That's great to hear. I'm the only man left on this side—they hit us hard. Is the missile launcher still—"

Enemy bolts blasted the ground in front of him, sending up plumes of mud, and he retreated further into the ditch. The enemy was almost here. Varon fired a few shots with his laspistol, caught an enemy trooper in the stomach and sent him doubling over. The return fire, naturally, was a tempest of plasma that all but pinned him, and he prayed to the Emperor for one thing: that he should survive long enough to punish these invaders for their assault on his homeworld.

He glimpsed soldiers circling around through the fields on either side of the roadway. They must have overestimated his platoon's strength—they were attempting to envelop him, rather than execute a direct assault. That gave him time. Their repulsorcraft were high-value targets, and the platoon might still have had access to a missile launcher...

"Fire at will!" he voxed. "I want those vehicles neutralized!"
"Understood, sir. But we don't—"

There was a thump on the other end and Willis went silent, though the sounds of battle still carried over the vox.

"Willis? Willis, respond!"

Who knew how many were left on the far side? The task at hand, now, was to make his way across the road and regroup with the other squad. It would hardly befit an officer to die away from the rest of his unit.

Varon fished around among the bodies of his compatriots, unfazed by the blood smearing all over his hands and grey-blue uniform. It was not long before he found what he was looking for: a smoke grenade. To dash across the elevated roadway in full view of the enemy would normally be suicide, but this might just give him a chance.

With the grenade in hand, Varon climbed up the embankment, and paused to gather the courage for what he needed to do. He did not have much time to gauge which way the wind was blowing, not with bolts of plasma streaking everywhere; he would have to rely on good fortune.

Then, he pressed the activation key and tossed the grenade across the road. It burst in a puff of grey smoke, which, blown by a slight breeze, drifted back towards him. Perfect. He got up and ran.

Red flashes strobed in the smoke, a few of them coming close enough for him to feel the heat through his armor. The air he breathed had an acrid tang to it. His first urge was to cough and choke, which made it hard to sprint, but sprint he did—before he knew it he had exited the smoke cloud and collapsed to the ground on a reverse slope, finally coming to rest in the mud at the bottom of the far ditch.

He looked around. Some distance away, further from the enemy, were the remnants of Second Squad. Several dead and a few men fighting for their lives from behind their comrades' bodies. If only he could get to them—

"Attention!" shouted an amplified, stilted voice from one of the repulsorcraft. Somehow it was speaking in Low Gothic. "We have you surrounded and outgunned! Your planet is under the control of the Galactic Empire. Surrender now, and you will be treated as prisoners of war—rather than terrorists."

Varon laughed. As his response, he raised his laspistol and fired a couple shots in the enemy's general direction. When the inevitable return fire streaked towards him, he simply collapsed back into the ditch, ignoring the bushes and brambles that scratched at his face, and crawled in the direction of his surviving squad.

"Sir!" a soldier shouted, one of his. Probably Malikor, though it was hard to tell under these conditions. "We thought you were dead, sir!"

"We are all dead men. But that won't stop us from doing our duty, now will it?" Malikor fired over his head at some unseen enemy. There were just a handful of men at this position, but they were blocking the Empire's assault for the time being—it was remarkable what a small group of determined fighters could accomplish. Varon crawled a little closer, until he was among them, and went on, "How many do we have?

"Me, Avaril, Gushon, and Metlik. Metlik's injured." More than Varon had expected, at least. Malikor gestured at the missile loader, Private Metlik, who sat still against the embankment and stared blankly into space. Blood trailed down from a cut on his temple.

"The missile launcher?"

"It was with Carval when they opened fire." Malikor tooke aim with his lasgun and downed a trooper. The enemy was all around them, but thanks to relentless defensive las-fire, they were on the ground and advancing at a crawl towards the Numorians' position. "Haven't had much time to look for it since, sir. It might not even be functional."

"I'll find it."

Varon probed the morass of mud and bodies, searching for cold, hard metal. He found something he thought at first to be promising—it was a lasgun, blasted in half. He found another contender—a metal pipe, which had probably sat rusting here for years.

The enemy was almost upon them now, they couldn't hold them off for much longer, and Varon had almost lost hope when he chanced upon it—a mostly submerged missile launcher, with a dead man's arm still attached to it. He pried off the grip of rigor mortis and shouldered the weapon. Whether it was loaded, he couldn't tell, but he had faith in the Emperor.

He rose to his knees and took aim at the middle repulsor. It was a solid, bulky craft, and he was trying to punch through its frontal armor—there was no guarantee the shot would penetrate. Nevertheless, he found the weakest-looking point and pulled the trigger. One missile shot out on a plume of smoke. It hit.

The transport went up in flames, the explosion strong enough that several hatches burst from their hinges. That was one enemy vehicle out of commission, permanently.

Varon smiled at what he'd done. Then, a shot to the chest sent him reeling, flat onto his back. His first response was surprise that he was still among the living—these heretical weapons had to be much weaker than lasguns, if he could even temporarily survive a hit in the chest from one. Malikor broke from fighting to attend to him, pulling a roll of mud-soaked bandages from his field pack.

"How does it look?" Varon asked. The pain wasn't as bad as he'd expected.

"Pretty bad, sir." Varon tried to sit up, and Malikor stopped him. "Hold up. You've done your duty."

"I'll have done my duty when I'm dead. Let me take another shot at them—that's an order."

Malikor hesitantly withdrew his arm. Varon, still holding the missile launcher, sat up—now the pain was bad—and crawled up the embankment again, this time taking a somewhat more cautious approach.

"Metlik!" he called out to the loader, who still lay dazed and probably unconscious. "I need another missile!"

No response. He saw the missile at Metlik's belt, just out of reach. Malikor heard him, though, and grabbed the missile, tossing it towards Varon. It was not a moment too soon. Enemy fire caught Malikor in the forehead and killed him instantly.

Varon picked the missile up from where it had landed softly in the dirt, and slammed it down the launching tube. There was a click as it snapped into place. Then, just as he was about to take aim, another shot hit him in the shoulder. His left arm erupted in pain. No matter—his right arm was all he needed to aim and pull the trigger.

He saw the nearest repulsorcraft, twenty meters away and getting closer. He saw its turret, depressing towards him, moments away from firing and obliterating his entire position.

But Varon fired first. The missile streaked forward from its launch tube, detonated against the hull.

"The Emperor"—he coughed up blood—"The Emperor protects."

His next sight, he knew with all his heart, would be the Golden Throne of Terra.