Chapter 12
The Madness Begins
General Desolas Arterius sat in his newly acquired office, going over the many files of paperwork before him. In the past, he would have found this tedious, but now he derived comfort from the monotony, something that lately was hard to come by.
When it was revealed that the negotiations had fallen through, the Hierarchy wasted no time in making preparations for all-out war. In keeping with their doctrine of bringing overwhelming force against the opposition, High Command had dispatched several flotillas from the Assault Fleet to the planet where they had first discovered the humans. Thousands of ships engaged the Federation's own naval forces stationed there. Though they outnumbered them by a large margin, the humans still reaped a steep toll on the Turians. Eventually, though, the sheer numbers of the Turian armada prevailed and the Federation's ships were either destroyed or forced to retreat. Having secured their position, the Turians had hunkered down and proceeded to try and find where the humans called home. Probes equipped with powerful telescopic cameras were sent out into various directions. It looked as though they had defeated the majority of the humans' forces and a Turian victory was inevitable. Sparatus himself had even gone on public broadcasts, declaring that despite their technological prowess, the humans were no match for Turian might and soon the Hierarchy's colors would be flying proudly upon every Federation world.
Then the probes sent back their pictures, and revealed the terrible truth: there were no human colonies anywhere. In fact, there didn't seem to be anything present for thousands of light-years, not even dormant mass relays. It was as if a massive chunk of the galaxy had been cut off from the whole, and that threw a gigantic wrench in the Turian's strategy. Without relays, their ships were limited to a mere fifteen light-years of travel a day; it would take years or even decades to find where the Federation called home, and that was time they didn't have.
High Command quickly switched from offensive to defensive measures, recalling the flotillas and divvying out their forces to strategically important planets. The name of the game now was to outlast the Federation, something that was not a favored tactic of the Turians. Nevertheless, the top brass of the Hierarchy remained confident that they would be able to weather whatever the humans could throw at them. They assured the citizens that the Federation hadn't even been spacefaring for a full century yet and so there was no way they could launch an assault of any real size.
Apparently, those commanders forgot to tell the humans that because a few months later, the Federation launched a two-pronged attack against Pheiros and Aephus. Both colonies were important; Aephus possessed a major shipyard and Pheiros was where the majority of the Navy's fuel was produced. Currently, the Navy was in a pitched battle to liberate them.
But neither of those planets were Desolas's concern. No, his concern was focused entirely on Digeris, where he'd been deployed. The planet was another vital component of the Hierarchy; should the humans successfully take it, they would have a staging point to strike at Palaven and it was up to him and his fellow generals to defend it.
A knock came from the door leading to his office. "Come in," Desolas said, eyes still fixed upon the paperwork.
At his bidding, the doors slid open and in walked General Orinia. By Turian standards, she was an eye-catcher; a nice sturdy waist, perfectly formed mandibles and vivid green eyes made for a very appealing picture. As she deposited herself in one of the vacant seats in Desolas's office, he looked up at her.
"Ah, General Orinia, how nice to see you," he remarked in a tone that implied otherwise. "Come to give me a snide comment about my competence, or lack thereof? I've gotten at least one from all the other Generals; with yours, I'll be able to safely say that every military leader on Digeris thinks I'm a disgrace to my rank."
And that galled him to no end; he had been faced with odds stacked so heavily against him that refusing to surrender would have been suicide and yet everyone seemed to think that he would have served the Hierarchy better if he and his men had gone down in a hail of bullets and fire. Worse still, they made it sound like he had practically dropped to his knees and begged the humans to accept his surrender the moment they began their attack. Several generals went so far as to imply that if they had been in his position, they would have spat on the humans' demands for surrender and fought to the last.
Last stands always seem admirable to those who don't have to carry them out, Desolas had thought scathingly.
Orinia weathered the bitter remark with professional coolness. "I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there, General Arterius. You'll just have to settle for me coming here to discuss strategies."
Desolas let out a snort and looked back down at his paperwork. "And what makes you think that I can offer anything of value?"
"Because right now, you're the only general in our entire military that has any experience fighting the Federation."
Desolas let out a hollow laugh. "I fought them for a grand total of two days; hardly what I would call a big campaign."
"That's two days more than anyone else," Orinia returned. "All we've got to work with right now are assumptions."
"Assumptions," Desolas repeated sourly. "There have been far too many assumptions for my taste. When we first found the humans trying to activate Relay 314, we assumed that we were only dealing with primitives just venturing out into the galaxy; we found out they were insanely advanced. When we gave them our terms, we assumed that they'd take them without argument; instead they told us to take our terms and shove them up our collective asses. When we assaulted their planet and drove off their fleets, we assumed we'd be able to carry on to the rest of their territory; we found that there was a massive void of empty space separating them from their colony that we couldn't traverse. When we went on the defensive, we assumed that the humans wouldn't be able to launch an effective attack of their own; they went and launched two, both at key points."
"And that's exactly why I want your input," stated Orinia. "So far, all our suppositions have been wrong, and I don't want to gamble the lives of my soldiers on another one if I can help it. The humans will come here; Digeris is a stepping stone towards Palaven. I want to give my troops a fighting chance, and you're my best bet at giving them one. So tell me, Desolas, what can I expect?"
Finally, Desolas looked up from his paperwork. Leaning back, he let out a sigh that sounded like it came from the bottom of his feet.
"What you can expect is an enemy that is a nightmare to stand against. As I told you before, I only fought them for a little over two days, so my knowledge of their methods will be miniscule. However, from what I saw, they seemed to favor lightning-fast strikes as a preliminary, followed by deploying their heavy armor to inflict the real damage. Then their troops come in and mop up whatever happens to survive. It was terrifyingly effective; I lost an entire legion before I even knew they had landed.
"But that won't be the worst of it. Not by a long shot. During the night, they unleashed…" he paused, searching for a proper word to convey what he had seen, "monsters. That's the best way I can describe those things, but it really doesn't do justice to how horrifying they were. They may not have inflicted as many casualties, but the damage they did to morale was appalling." He stared off into the distance as unpleasant memories began to surface.
"Have you ever seen hardened Turians, veterans who had several campaigns under their belts, reduced to babbling gibberish as they curled up into a ball or screaming for their mothers like newborns? I did. Some couldn't even do even that; they just stared off into space and drooled over themselves. And you suddenly realize that you could end up just like them the next time."
Of course, it had been far worse than that. As if acting on his words, those memories which had been content to just simmer in his subconscious suddenly erupted into a frothing maelstrom. He saw himself back in the field hospital on the humans' planet, seeing firsthand the effects of their pet freaks' attacks. There was a Turian lying down on a cot, wrists and ankles tied firmly down, staring blankly at nothing. One of his arms was swathed in a thick coat of bandages; the medics told him that he had been trying to chew it off and that before they had managed to restrain him, he had gnawed it right down to the bone. Moments later, another patient who had been sitting quietly suddenly leaped out of his cot and attacked the medic examining him, howling like a mad varren. Two nearby soldiers pulled him off the medic, but not before he had torn the poor soul's throat out with his teeth.
A loud tapping sound reached his ears and he realized that his hand was shaking. He shot Orinia a look of embarrassment and quickly wrapped his other hand around the trembling limb.
Though she did well to hide it, Orinia was clearly shaken as well. "So what can we do about all that?"
"Well, that's the million credit question, isn't it?" quipped Desolas. "What can we do? We're already in a bad position as it is. Since they don't use the relays, the Federation can hit us wherever they damn well please, which means we can't leave any critical worlds unprotected; and if Pheiros and Aephus are anything to judge by, they know exactly which ones those are.
"The loss of either one would be a heavy blow; the loss of both would be crippling. That means the Navy is going to be spending most of their efforts trying to keep them in our hands, and that will tie up a lot of assets. That being said, we're both lucky and unlucky with being stationed here on Digeris. This planet is a buffer for Palaven, so we'll be given priority over other colonies, but like you said, Digeris would give the Federation a clear shot at our homeworld. Unfortunately, until we manage to come up with countermeasures against their tactics, we're going to be in for some heavy bruising.
"Which brings me to another issue we face: we're out of practice in warfare. We haven't had a real war since the Rebellions. All we've had to deal with for the past eleven hundred or so years are pirates, slaver gangs and the occasional jumped-up warlord. Oh, we know all the best ways to combat known forces, but that's the problem: we're too standardized. The humans are a fresh face to the galaxy; we don't know how they fight, we've only seen a glimmer of what they're capable of, and, to top it off, they just finished with a massive war. They're nice and hardened by it and after the move we pulled on their colony, I can all but guarantee that the only thing on their minds is to make us bleed."
The move he was referring to was when the Navy flotillas, having secured control over the orbit of the humans' world, immediately began to bombard the surface. It was said that they had rendered half a continent uninhabitable when they were done. Desolas understood the reasoning behind it. After all, why send good soldiers into a meat grinder when you could simply bomb all opposition to pieces from safety? That was just good tactical sense, at least from a Turian standpoint. Anything that could benefit the enemy was a target, whether a manufacturing plant or a hospital. Of course, blasting people to kingdom come doesn't inspire any goodwill, and Desolas was dreading what they might have in store to exact their revenge.
Orinia looked a bit miffed. "I think you're selling our soldiers short there, General. We have the largest and most disciplined fighting force in all of Council space. Not once has a Turian unit ever been broken. If we could endure the Rebellions, we can endure whatever the Federation might throw at us."
"During the Rebellions, we had the support of the Council and all their associates," Desolas pointed out. "The Asari poured trillions of credits into our coffers while the Salarians gave us tactical information and even then we were taking a beating until the genophage was made. And when we were formally inducted into the Council, our sole purpose was to be their iron fist. We didn't need to be anything else. The Salarians took care of the more extensive logistics and the Asari would always be the mediators should any diplomatic issues arise. All we had to do was go after whoever it was they told us needed to be knocked around. Now we can't count on that their help this time; they made it quite clear to everyone, especially the Federation, that they've washed their collective hands of us. All we've got now are the Volus, and aside from providing some additional funds and materials, they won't be able to contribute much."
Truth be told, they weren't happy about having to contribute to the war at all. Once the Hierarchy had officially drafted a declaration of war against the Federation, the Volus ambassador had gone to Councilor Sparatus in a towering fury. He accused the Turians of abusing his people's status as a client race for their own selfish goals and that if they wanted to embark on a campaign of revenge so badly, then they should leave the Volus out of it. Sparatus, being the unbending politician that he was, reminded the ambassador that the Protectorate's position as a client race meant that all decisions regarding foreign affairs would be decided by the Hierarchy, and if they decided to go to war, then the Volus were going to support them, whether they liked it or not. Needless to say, the Turians were very unpopular with the Volus right now.
Desolas knew one thing for certain: however this war played out, it was going to be a long and horrid affair. Hopefully, it would be some time before it came to Digeris.
#
As it turned out, Desolas's hope was in vain. Two days later, the Federation arrived in force, numbering a total of three hundred and fifty ships. The fleet defending Digeris stood at a full thousand strong, outnumbering the humans almost three to one. Had they been facing anyone else, Desolas would have considered the battle already won. As it was, what the humans lacked in numbers they made up for in firepower. All their ships bore potent direct energy weapons, some of which bore enough power to destroy a dreadnought with a single blast. One on one, a Federation ship would beat its Turian counterpart almost every time. This fight was going to be close.
All Desolas could do was wait and see who won.
#
"General Arterius sir! Wake up!"
The cry was coupled with a frantic banging on the door of his quarters, forcing Desolas to awaken. Blearily, he checked his digital clock; it showed that it was the middle of night in accordance with galactic standard time. That meant that daybreak on Digeris was still several hours away. Shaking sleep away, Desolas got up from his cot and moved to the door. It opened to reveal a frantic looking Turian soldier.
"What is it, soldier?" he asked in a sleep-heavy voice.
The soldier's mandibles fluttered, a sure sign of extreme anxiety. "Sir, our fleet has been defeated."
And like that, Desolas was wide awake. "What?! When did this happen?"
"Just recently."
"Fuck," Desolas growled. Inwardly grateful he had opted to sleep in uniform, he rushed out of his quarters and made for his sector's command post with the soldier trailing behind him. A few minutes later he arrived at his destination, where communications personnel were frantically going about their duties. Desolas sighted the officer in charge and strode purposefully over.
"Bring me up to speed here. What's the situation?"
The officer's mandibles were firmly clenched. "Putting it simply, the Nefs beat our navy. For the past couple of days, it was more or less a stalemate. We pushed them, they pushed back and no one really gained any ground."
"Well, then what happened?" Desolas asked impatiently. "How did they get the better of our fleet?"
"They pulled a fast one on us, sir. The Nefs suddenly fired up their FTL drives and jumped out of there. It looked like they had had enough, but a few of their ships were left behind. They seemed like they were too badly damaged to be able escape." The officer let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Turns out, they were just bait. While our ships were getting ready to blow those bastards to smithereens, the Nefs showed up right behind them. And they brought three of their dreadnoughts with them."
Desolas felt as though he had just been slugged in the gut. The humans' dreadnoughts were veritable nightmares, topping out at three kilometers long and encased in such thick armor that they were almost indestructible. Worse still, they had three times the broadsides of a Turian dreadnought, and most of them were direct energy mounts. One was more than capable of dealing with a standard battle group and only come off with a few scuff marks on their hides. Three of them together would be almost unstoppable, especially if they were supported by other ships. Struggling to keep his voice from trembling, Desolas asked, "And then what happened?"
The officer snorted. "They blew the crap out of our ships. The fleet was already strained pretty badly; our own dreadnoughts had already been taken out and we were down nearly two hundred ships while the Nefs were holding out at three hundred before they jumped. They didn't expect to be hit from the rear by the humans' fleet, never mind being backed up by three of their dreadnoughts. The ones that didn't get wiped out weren't in any position to resume the fight and got the hell out of there."
He pulled up a holographic image of the planet. Desolas quickly picked out the Federation's ships, ugly red specks hovering around Digeris. It was a chilling sight; the humans now had uncontested control over the planet's orbit. They could move troops and supplies as they pleased and rain down death and destruction at will, and there would be nothing the Turians could do about it, not until reinforcements arrived. It was almost funny when he thought about it; Digeris was the sight of the bloodiest battle in Turian history during the Krogan Rebellions, and now it was about to play host to another battle that was practically assured to equal, if not surpass it in sheer destruction.
Suddenly, the scanners began to bleep in alarm and the room resumed its frantic activity. Desolas didn't need anyone to tell him what was happening. There was only one thing it could be: the humans were launching their invasion.
#
If there was one thing you could say about Saren Arterius, it would be that he was a damn fine soldier. Like every Turian, he had begun boot camp at fifteen, and it was there that he first distinguished himself; most new recruits took at least two or three years of training before they were considered ready for active service. Saren was cleared after only one and then joined the Havoc Corps, the formidable shock troops of the Hierarchy, where he served admirably in several combat situations.
When war was declared against the human Federation, Saren couldn't have been happier to be serving on the frontlines. He wanted to aid his people the best way he could, by killing the enemy wherever they were. His brother Desolas, however, did not share his enthusiasm.
"This is not some second-rate Terminus warlord we're going up against," he had told Saren. "The Federation is a very powerful and very brutal foe. It's going to take everything we have to defeat them."
"That's exactly why I'm going to be out there with the vanguards," Saren said. "The Hierarchy needs every soldier it can get and I'm one of its best. I'm going to be out there putting every human I see into an early grave."
"If you knew what they were capable of, you wouldn't be so eager to face them," Desolas said forebodingly.
"You sound as if you're scared of them," Saren replied, a hint of scorn in his voice. Desolas bristled visibly.
"Watch your tone, Saren. You may be my little brother, but I am a senior officer, and if you push too far, I can and will discipline you. And I'd be a damn fool if I wasn't scared of the humans. They've got things at their disposal that you couldn't dream up in your worst nightmares, things I would not wish unleashed on my most hated enemy." He then let out a heavy sigh and said in a softer tone, "I saw good Turians suffer fates worse than death back there. I don't want to see you end up like them. Just…promise me you won't do anything rash."
Saren promised, but he was a soldier of the Hierarchy, and it was his duty to defend it from those who would see it destroyed, no matter what might happen to him. So here he was on Digeris, waiting for the Federation to try and take it, promising to himself that so long as he drew breath and had a loaded gun in his hand, he would shed the blood of every human that landed on the planet.
When the sirens began to wail, waking Saren from his sleep, he knew that his waiting was over. Lieutenant Voram, his unit's commanding officer, was already up. His armor was strapped on and his weapons in hand. He went around the rousing Turians, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
"Rise and shine, kids! The Nefs are coming in for breakfast and we don't want to look like bad hosts, do we?"
Cries of "No sir!" echoed from fifteen pumped-up Turian Havocs, Saren's voice among them. Once they were all fully equipped, they headed out to the nearby airstrip, where an Aetos gunship was waiting for them. It was a formidable craft, well armored and boasting missile bays under each wing coupled with a pair of heavy mass-accelerator machine guns mounted underneath its hull. It also possessed strong kinetic barriers for even greater protection, but given that the humans used energy weapons, they wouldn't count for much in a fight.
One by one, the Turians filed into the gunship's hull, which was spacious enough that they weren't crammed together, but personal space was going to be hard to come by. The dull thrum of its engines rattled through the hold, followed by the distinctive whum-whum-whum of the element zero core firing up. Within moments, Saren felt the gunship rise up into the air. Though there were no windows, he guessed that they were climbing at a rate of fifty feet a second. It continued to rise for another minute and then the Havocs were jolted to their sides as the aircraft surged forward.
Voram's voice crackled in through Saren's helmet comms. "Alright Havocs, listen up! Reports are coming in saying the Nefs are landing sizeable forces all across the Elpis continent. Too bad for them that the Havoc Corps just so happens to be here!" Cheers rang out from the Turians.
"Right now, the cities of Mavos, Aratus and Gallo are under siege and they're getting hit hard. By the look of it, the apes are trying to cut through them and make their way to Apparitus. It is imperative that we keep them away from the capital; it's the most industrialized city on Digeris and if they manage to secure it, our manufacturing productivity on the planet is going to take a big hit. Our division is heading to Aratus to lend support. I assume you've all brought your big guns?"
Chuckles came from the Turians. No Havoc worth his fringe would forget to bring along his heavy weapon, in this case the ML-77. The missile launcher fired homing projectiles that would always find a hostile target; might not always be the one in the crosshairs, but it would still find one. The missiles themselves were small, but they hit with enough power to tear through all but the toughest of armors, and each soldier carried fifteen of them. Whether used to take out entrenched targets in urban combat or bring down enemy vehicles, the 77 was a weapon that always did its job.
Voram nodded in approval. "Good to hear, because you'll need them. So far, the enemy has only landed mecha, so that means we'll be sticking with anti-armor tactics. Remember, you're smaller and faster than they are, so use that to your advantage. The small ones you can take out with one good shot. The bigger ones are a lot tougher, so prioritize weak points like their joints. Take out a leg and they're going to have a much harder time fighting back. Don't try to take them head on; they're packing a lot more firepower than you and are more than capable of mashing you to paste if they catch you. As for those Engel things, avoid them at all costs. Any damage you might inflict on them will only be a temporary inconvenience and you'll then have a very pissed off bioengineered monster who wants nothing more than to rip you apart and eat the pieces."
A loud beeping sound rang out in the hull, informing the Havocs that they were nearing their designated drop zone. The gunship's hull doors slid open to reveal the world beneath. Saren looked down and saw that Voram hadn't been kidding when he said Aratus had been hit hard. Trails of flames marked the Federation's swathe of destruction for miles with the night serving to make them appear brighter. Even from the gunship's altitude, Saren could hear the sound of battle raging as the forces on both sides fought for dominance. The lieutenant shouldered his missile launcher.
"This is it, Havocs! Who are the first into the fray?"
"THE HAVOC CORPS!" the soldiers roared.
"Who are the ones who pave the way?"
"THE HAVOC CORPS!"
"What's our motto?"
"DEATH FROM ABOVE!"
"Then let's teach these primates the meaning of those words!"
With a last roar, the Havocs all jumped out of the gunship and began plummeting towards the ground at incredible speed. A wave of euphoria washed over Saren as he fell; there was no greater rush than freefalling hundreds of feet in the air with only his propulsion packs to prevent him from splattering upon the ground.
Voram's voice suddenly chimed in through his helmet comms. "There's a building right beneath us; head for the roof."
Saren saw him fire up his jets and veer off to a three story building. He and the rest of the Havocs quickly followed after him. Moments later, he landed with a knee-buckling thump. Once the entire platoon had landed, Voram did a quick headcount, determining that all were present and accounted for, and then got down to business.
"All right Havocs, you know the drill!" he called out. "Stick together, keep on your toes and above all, maintain the high ground! Now let's go find us a target! Move out!"
Soon, the platoon was speeding across the tops of the city's buildings, their packs pushing them forward at a breakneck pace. A sense of power began to well up in Saren. He felt as though nothing could touch him. Here, in his element, he was a force of nature compressed into the form of a Turian and the Federation's forces were going to feel his fury.
"Contact!" one of the troopers yelled, causing the platoon to come to a halt. "Enemy mecha unit, dead ahead!"
Sure enough, there stood a small group of human mecha stomping through the streets in front of them. There were five of them in total. The largest one stood nearly thirty feet tall and was so heavily armored that Saren felt a flicker of doubt that their missile launchers would be able to do anything to it. It was followed by four other mecha that were much smaller, a mere ten feet each. One pair shared the same design as the big one, being stocky and sporting an excess of armor. Both wielded guns almost as large as a Turian in their metallic hands in an eerie mimicry of an actual—if oversized—soldier.
The other two were purple in color and much sleeker in form, but were strangely proportioned, with overlong arms and a weird horn-like protrusion coming up from their shoulders. It was such an awkward design, yet they moved with a fluid grace that would have been more appropriate for a living creature rather than a bipedal hunk of metal. In spite of himself, Saren could not help but admire the humans' technological capabilities.
"Looks like we got our first victims Havocs," Voram said and Saren was sure he heard a tinge of savage glee in his voice. "Sargent Celsus, you see that building?" He indicated a bombed out apartment complex parallel to their position.
"Sure do, LT," he replied.
"I want you to take your squad and hop over there. We're going to flank those oversized tin cans and catch 'em in a crossfire. When we get into striking range, your squad will aim for the small ones; the rest of us will hit the big clunker. Make your shots count because you might not get another."
"Yes sir," replied Celsus. Without another word, he and his squad activated their packs and were propelled onto the opposite building.
"All right everyone; let's go open up some cans!"
Within moments, the platoon had closed in on the mecha, who remained unaware of their presence and continued to lumber their way forward. Saren quickly readied his missile launcher, aiming at the left leg joint of the big one. All around him, his fellow Havocs were doing the same, choosing their own weak point to strike. Across from them, Celsus's squad was targeting the smaller mecha.
"On my command…" Voram said over the comms, "FIRE!"
Almost simultaneously, fifteen missiles were launched into the air and screamed towards the mecha. The small ones went down in short order, their hulls torn apart by the high-explosive warheads. The majority of them hit the big mech, striking its limbs and chassis. Saren saw his own impact right where he had aimed, the projectile tearing a sizeable gash in its leg. The war machine was now heavily damaged; Saren noted with a tinge of pride that his shot had done a number on its leg, giving it a noticeable limp.
However, it was not out of the fight yet; even as he watched, Saren saw the mech point an arm at Celsus's squad and fired a bright beam of energy at them. The squad barely leapt to safety as the beam slammed into the spot where they had been, punching a giant hole in the building. Again, Saren could not help but be impressed by the humans' manufacturing capabilities; they had hit it with enough force to knock out a Tyrus tank twice over, yet it was still functional enough to keep fighting. If it had been equipped with kinetic barriers, the damage it had sustained probably would have been largely mitigated. Nevertheless, it was still badly damaged, and now it was time to finish it off.
The Havocs pressed their advantage, launching themselves into the air and firing at the mech destroying the giant war machine bit by bit. Its right arm was now crippled, hanging uselessly from the socket, and its metal hide was pockmarked by several ugly scours from their missiles. Yet even injured, the mech proved to be plenty dangerous; though they had taken one arm out, the other was still fully functional and it unleashed a volley of energy blasts from the gun attached there. Though its accuracy was severely impaired, even a glancing hit was enough to kill, as three unfortunate Havocs found out. Still, there was no way it could keep up its attack; the Havocs were far faster and more agile than the mech and with every strike, it was brought that much closer to destruction. Victory was inevitable.
And then they were reminded just how quickly the tide can turn in war.
It all happened so fast; there was Sargent Celsus being propelled into the air by his packs, aiming his missile launcher at the lamed mech. All of a sudden, something big and fast crashed into him, coming to a rest on a nearby building. A lull descended over the entire platoon as they realized what it was: an Engel.
To Saren's eyes, it was as if someone had taken the upper body of a Krogan—hump included—placed it on top of a pair of Quarian legs and then they went and jacked it up to a height of nearly thirty feet for good measure. But Saren's eyes were drawn to its head, and not simply due to its unnerving serpentine movements. There, trapped between its jaws, was Celsus. His helmet had come off during his capture and he bore a look of utter surprise, as though he didn't understand what had just happened. Before he could realize his predicament, the Engel arched its head backwards and gulped him down like a lizard would an insect.
Saren was no stranger to death. He had seen his fellow Turians gunned down by enemy fire, seen others ripped apart by biotics and had even seen a Krogan head-butt a Turian so hard his skull caved in. But the idea that Celsus's ultimate fate was to provide extra nourishment to a bioengineered monster and eventually become nothing more than a waste product filled Saren with a wild and irrational rage. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to see this freak of science die in agony. For one insane moment, Saren thought to take his missile launcher and fire everything he had at the creature, to blow apart its head and watch as it bled out on the cold hard ground below.
"Fall back, Havocs!"
Voram's order cut through Saren's murderous haze. As his fury died down, Saren suddenly realized just how close he'd been to doing something stupid. This was an Engel, one of the Federation's greatest creations; he didn't have a prayer in bringing it down, not with his puny missile launcher. His platoon wasted no time in activating their packs and Saren followed suite, beating an orderly retreat.
Of course, the Engel was not about to just stand by and let them get away. Sure enough, a dreadful howl rang out from the Engel and it launched itself after them. Saren felt his blood run cold at how fast the thing was; Havoc packs could propel their user at speeds of up to fifty miles an hour, yet the Engel was able to easily keep pace as it bounded across the rooftops after them, moving with a bestial grace that belied its large and grotesquely shaped form.
Within moments, the monster claimed two more victims. One Havoc was too slow in making his jump and was crushed beneath the Engel's hand like a bug. Another gamely tried to fire off a missile at the creature in an attempt to distract it, only for it to open up its terrible maw and snap its head forward; a glob of saliva splashed over him and he began to melt, armor and all, shrieking in octaves that Saren hadn't thought possible. Those trailed off into sickly gurgles as his chest cavity dissolved. Within seconds, all that remained of him was a thick blue puddle.
It was clear to Saren that his platoon was in dire straits now. They didn't have anything that could truly hurt the beast and they couldn't outrun it either. Unless they found refuge from the Engel, it would wipe them out in no time.
Fortunately, Voram spotted the means of their escape. "Down there!" he called out. "Head for that bunker!"
Saren looked at the place where the lieutenant suddenly veered towards. Right below them, innocuously situated near the base of a half-demolished skyscraper, was a thick metal dome. Such emplacements were placed all throughout the cities to allow soldiers to strike at enemy combatants from a fortified position. Better still, they were all connected by a network of tunnels, meaning that those same soldiers could pop up anywhere they wished and frag the enemy when they least expected it. If the platoon could get inside it, they'd be safe. Of course, given that there was a gigantic bioengineered monster nipping at their heels, getting inside was going to be close. The instant they landed, Voram began shouting orders
"Everyone inside!" he roared. "Move your asses or none of us are getting out of this alive! Go, go, go!"
As the Havocs began to file into the bunker, the Engel made its appearance. Landing with startling elegance, it reared up to its full height and scrutinized the Turians; it almost looked like it was gloating. Doubtless, it was deciding on who it was going to kill next. Its jaws opened again and long ropes of acidic drool dripped from them, causing thick vapors to rise up from wherever they splattered. Saren saw his chance; taking aim, hit shot his missile. The Engel was taken by surprise and the projectile hit it right in its alien maw, blowing out a good chunk. Red blood and acidic spittle rained on the ground as the Engel screeched in pain and rage. Taking advantage of the distraction, the rest of the Havocs quickly entered the bunker and down into the tunnel below, running like the dark Spirits themselves were after them. Above them, they could hear the Engel howl its fury at having its prey escape.
Voram slumped against the tunnel wall and gave Saren an approving nod. "That was a hell of a move you pulled there, soldier."
Saren just shrugged. "Just doing my job, sir."
Voram let out a snort of laughter before sighing deeply, his mood turning grim. "Alright everyone, take a breather. Once we've had a bit of rest, we'll try to find a way back to our own lines. We've done all we can do for now." He wandered off to the side and began muttering into his helmet comm, trying to get a read on where friendly lines were.
It was now that Saren realized how tired he felt. The adrenaline had burnt out, and his body made its weariness known. He sat down heavily, leaning against the wall for support. The remaining members of the platoon did likewise, as exhausted as he was. All were quiet and somber; almost half of the platoon was dead and all they had to show for it were a few enemy mecha destroyed. It hardly seemed like a fair exchange.
A few minutes later, Voram addressed his remaining soldiers. "Okay Havocs, I've got good news. There's a friendly outpost not too far from where we are. We're going to link up with whoever's in charge and go from there. We'll rest for five more minutes, and then we're heading out."
#
It felt like an age had passed before they reached their destination, though Saren guessed that it was more like half an hour. When they arrived, the outpost was a veritable hive of activity. Voram managed to snag a wandering soldier and have him point them in the direction of his commanding officer. When they came to him, he was busy shouting at various subordinates as they scurried about.
"Everything that we can't take must be destroyed! Erase the data files or smash the drivers with a rock, I don't care, but we are not going to leave anything usable for the humans to pick up!"
Voram approached the officer and asked, "Sir? Are you the one in command here?"
The officer turned around and Saren immediately recognized him. It was none other than his own brother. So surprised was he that Saren could only say, "Desolas?"
His brother did a double take and fixed Saren with a scrutinizing stare. "Saren? Is that you?"
In answer, Saren removed his helmet and gave Desolas a smile. "Yep. Your kid brother is here."
Voram seemed to be equally shocked at the discovery, but his ingrained discipline quickly snapped him out of it. He adopted a parade-perfect salute and said, "Sir, Lieutenant Voram Karris of the Havoc Corps, reporting in. This is my platoon." He gestured at the Havocs, who mimicked his salute, including Saren.
"Well, Lieutenant, you and your men have good timing," Desolas remarked. "We're about to begin falling back. Any longer and you might have found yourselves stuck behind enemy lines."
Upon hearing this, Saren said, "Falling back? What do you mean you're falling back?"
"I mean exactly that," Desolas replied curtly. "The humans have begun sending in their second wave, and we've got a big chunk of that force heading our way. There's no way we can hold out against them, so we need to move or we're going to be in some very big trouble."
No sooner had he said that when the loud whistling shrieks of artillery rounds filled the air. An instant later, explosions blossomed throughout the area, kicking up clouds of earth and debris and shredding any who had the misfortune to be caught in their blasts. Saren dove to the ground and curled up into a ball in an attempt to minimize any target he might present. One round struck close by him, showering him with sooty dirt but otherwise not harming him. The rain of artillery shells continued for a few more seconds, and then stopped. Saren shakily got to his feet and then froze in horror.
Desolas had not been as fortunate as he. His right leg was a mangled mess; bone slivers jutted from multiple areas and his foot was twisted at an angle it was not meant to bend. Saren rushed over to his brother and began shouting for a medic. Just as one ran up to help Desolas, he suddenly stopped, his eyes going wide.
"What the hell are those things?"
Saren followed his gaze and quickly found what the medic was looking at. The moment he did, the breath caught in his throat. There, swarming towards them by the hundreds was a horde of monsters. They looked like miniature versions of the Engels, creatures encased in cybernetic armor, though it did little to hide their unnatural appearance. The majority of them loped upon long limbs at incredible speed, alternating between running on all fours and a hunched, bipedal gait. Saren could make out cruel talons and saw their fanged jaws snapping and slavering, eager to taste Turian blood.
Any other force would have likely turned tail and run screaming, but the Turians' formidable discipline kept them from breaking. All throughout the outpost, the sound of gunfire echoed as the retreating Turians tried to fend off the tide of the humans' terrible monstrosities. Bullets carved grooves into their armor, some even managing to find purchase in their flesh, but the creatures pressed on, uncaring about the hail of bullets biting at them.
For Saren, the battle shrank down to only what he could see before him. Adrenaline once more began coursing through his body and everything seemed to slow down to a crawl. One of the monsters was now close enough for him to make out every detail, from its saliva-coated fangs in its snapping maws, glistening like black razor blades, to the hooked talons on its powerful digits. It flung itself at Saren, who reacted instinctively, firing a burst into its chest region, which managed to check its advance. Apparently deciding to go after easier prey, the creature shifted its focus to the medic attending Desolas and went after him in a flurry of claw slashes. The hapless Turian didn't even have time to cry out as its jaws closed around his throat. The teeth sliced clean through flesh and bone, severing his head from his shoulders. As his body dropped limply to the ground, the creature turned its attention to Desolas.
As it moved in for the kill, a white-hot rage exploded in Saren. Opening up with his gun, he screamed, "GET AWAY FROM MY BROTHER, YOU FREAK!"
His first burst took it in its mouth, blowing off a portion of its jaw so that it hung uselessly by a rope of sinew. Wasting no time, Saren fired again and again until its head was nothing more than a gory ruin. It fell onto its side, twitching as its last vestiges of life ebbed away.
The threat taken care of, Saren snatched up the medic's fallen med case and knelt beside his brother, heedless of the battle still raging around him. Desolas craned his head weakly to look at him and croaked, "Saren…what are you doing?"
"Just keep still, Des," Saren said as he searched for something to treat Desolas. "You're going to be fine. I'll get you out of here, don't worry." His tone was shaky with emotion.
After a frantic search, he found what he was looking for: a canister of biofoam, the staple of every frontline first aid kit. Once applied to an injury, the self-sealing foam would serve to halt bleeding, cleanse initial infections and even provide an anesthetic to the afflicted. It was by no means a proper treatment, but it would serve for now. Wasting no time, Saren began to spray the foam onto his brother's leg.
As he continued his task, Desolas suddenly yelled, "SAREN, LOOK OUT!"
Too late. No sooner had Saren turned around when the jaws of another creature clamped shut on his left arm like a living trap, teeth slicing through armor and into flesh and bone. Pain beyond anything he had ever felt coursed through his arm and Saren could not hold back a scream. He beat his free hand against the thing's big head in a desperate attempt to dislodge its hold, but his efforts garnered no reaction.
With a sharp jerk of its head, the monster hurled him off to the side like he was a small child. Saren soon saw the damage done to his arm; the creature's fangs had nearly severed his forearm and blood flowed freely from the dreadful wound. He began to feel lightheaded and his breathing became shallow, a sure sign of shock setting in. The creature now loomed over him with the confidence of a predator that had caught a meal. Saren tried to move back, but it pinned him down under a powerful hand. Saren could hear the sharp screech as its talons carved deep grooves into his armor. Its grotesque head lowered, jaws opening wide to tear him apart.
And suddenly, loud cracks filled the air and its body suddenly torqued violently to the left. It fell away from him with a keening howl which continued until another staccato of cracks silenced it. Then Voram was kneeling beside him, applying biofoam to his mauled arm. Moments later, the self-sealing foam hardened, ensuring that he would not bleed to death.
"I gotcha, kid." He grabbed Saren's uninjured arm and slung it across his shoulders. With a grunt of effort, Voram hauled him to his feet. "Come on. We're getting you out of here."
Saren was only able to walk a few feet before stumbling. He let out a groan of pain. Something was wrong; the anesthetic in the foam wasn't working. If anything, the pain seemed to have only grown worse. His arm throbbed in agony, like a thousand red-hot knives were stabbing it. Voram let out another grunt and then raised Saren's entire body up onto his shoulders.
"Come on, kid. We'll get you up on a medevac plane and get you to safe place so you can be patched up."
"Desolas…" Saren moaned. "Where…my brother?" Everything was starting to dissolve into a haze of pain around him.
"He's being taken care of, don't worry," Voram assured him. "We'll get him out of here too."
But it was not to be. No sooner had he spoke when a dreadful howl sounded out, cutting through Saren's pain-clouded mind. He lifted his head and saw another monster attacking. This one was much larger, resembling nothing short of a walking tank and the smaller ones made sure to make way for it. Any Turians who had the misfortune to stand before it were smashed aside like ragdolls. Then Saren saw its next target: Desolas.
It made short work of the two Turians who had gone to help him, and then it focused its attention on the prone General. In a futile gesture, Desolas brought up his sidearm and began firing at the hulking creature. It ignored the shots like they were nothing more than buzzing insects and wrapped its large paws around his brother's body, hoisting him into the air until the two were at eye level. Still Desolas continued to fire, even as its mouth opened wide, revealing rows of serrated teeth. Saren heard someone scream, and then realized it was him.
The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was the creature biting his brother in half.
#
Doctor Phocas rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He was exhausted; when the humans began their invasion, the hospital he worked at soon found itself swamped with injured soldiers in dire need of treatment. For hours on end he had treated just about every injury in the book, from deep lacerations to severe burns. He did the best he could, but there were just so many of them, and more than a few were already beyond anyone's help. The best that could be done was to ensure their last hours were spent in as much comfort as could be afforded.
Right now, Phocas wanted nothing more than to doze off and catch a couple hours of sleep. Unfortunately, that would have to wait, because at that moment a soldier ran up to him, a Havoc judging by his armor and propulsion packs, and grabbed hold of him.
"Doctor, one of my men needs help," he said in an urgent tone. Phocas resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Him and everyone else here, he thought. Outwardly, he asked, "Where is he?"
"This way." The soldier led him over to one of the cots the hospital staff had been forced to use when they ran out of rooms to put them in, upon which lay another Havoc trooper. Right away, the doctor could tell that the unconscious soldier was in bad shape. His eyes were rolling madly under their lids and his fringe was drooping. He looked over at the soldier who led him.
"What happened to him?" Phocas asked.
"He got bitten by one of the Nefs pet freaks." He gestured to the plastered left arm. "We got foam on it before blood loss could be a problem, but he's been getting worse."
Phocas bent down for a closer look, but the foam encasing the limb made it difficult to ascertain what the problem was. He caught a passing nurse and told her to get a tourniquet and some basic medical equipment. She returned in short order and Phocas swiftly fastened it around the soldier's upper arm. Finished, he picked up a scalpel and began cracking apart the hardened foam.
The plaster fell away and his nose was suddenly assaulted by a terrible stench, almost making him gag. Even the surgical mask he wore couldn't block it all out. Looking down, he saw the arm was suffering from severe necrosis; the forearm was already blackened and the rot was spreading up the limb. If he had to guess, Phocas would say that whatever had bitten the soldier had injected him with a potent hemotoxin.
"We need to get him to surgery, now," the doctor proclaimed. He immediately began snapping out orders to the nearby orderlies.
The injured soldier was brought into a surgical room in good time. Time was of the essence; every second wasted meant this Turian edged ever closer to death. Tired as he was, Phocas would be damned if he let him die when there was still a chance to save him. The first thing that had to be done was to remove the afflicted arm. It was beyond saving, and would only serve to allow the venom to continue to destroy healthy flesh.
The orderlies strapped down the soldier's good arm and legs. The hospital was already out of local anesthetics, so the Turian was in for a very unpleasant ride. Once he was sure the soldier was sufficiently restrained, Phocas activated a surgical laser cutter and brought it up to the shoulder of the ruined arm. Without pause, he began the amputation procedure. As expected, the soldier woke right up, screaming bloody murder. Orderlies and his fellow Havocs held him down, trying to minimize his thrashing. Seconds later, the arm was removed and deposited into a biohazard disposal crate. The soldier slumped down in an exhausted heap.
Phocas looked down at him with a sense of satisfaction as the restraints were removed. The infected limb was gone, and the venom shouldn't have been able to spread too far. At any rate, he'd keep the soldier under close watch and see how things went for him.
As he made to leave, the soldier suddenly reached over and grabbed his arm. His grip was shaky and weak, but it still astounded Phocas that he would have the strength to even do that much after everything he'd been through. The soldier looked up at him blearily and croaked, "Where…gun? Have…to get…out...there. Have to…fight."
"Fight?" the doctor repeated incredulously. "Son, you're in no condition to go back out there. As far as you're concerned, the war is over for you."
But not for the rest of them; the war on Digiris was just beginning.
#
Codex: Nephilim
Yet another brilliant if demented project pioneered by Anton Miyakame, the Nephilim were created to give mankind a better chance in the Aeon War. Much like the Engels from which they are based on, they are genetically engineered, artificially grown organisms formed of DNA from mortal and metaterrestrial specimens who are then cybernetically modified, encased in armor and possess mounted weapon systems. While they are far smaller than their Engel kin, they are no less terrifying. Each breed is incredibly powerful, the biggest ones capable of overcoming squads of armed soldiers on their own.
The early days of the project were hampered by the fact that the Nephilim proved to be highly difficult to control, resulting in many gruesome deaths. Back then, the only way to get them to cooperate as to use Manipulative para-psychics as handlers and link the two with a modified version of the Engel Synthesis Interface. Even that method was precarious at best.
It was not until the end of the Aeon War that the Nephilim were finally perfected, thanks to the development of the Remote Control Node. Based off an implant that the Migou had made in mimicry of the Engel Synthesis Interface, the node serves to command the actions of the Nephilim from afar, functioning similarly to remotely controlled drones. While the creatures remain mostly autonomous, they will obey any commands given in their totality. Certain preset commands are already in place upon activation, such as what they can and cannot kill. Even so, troops deployed alongside them remain uneasy and prefer to keep their distance just in case one decides to go berserk. At the end of the day though, the Nephilim are a welcome addition to the NEF's armed forces.
Emim
Big, strong and terrifying; these are words that are used to describe these hulking creatures. Topping out at twelve feet in height, they are more than capable of smashing through walls or biting a luckless individual in half. They are often equipped with various heavy weapons mounts so as to make them even more dangerous. When it howls, those nearby cannot help but feel a sense of fear bubble up within them. In addition to being vicious and aggressive, Emim also exhibit sadistic streaks, often toying with their prey before killing it.
Rephaim
Where the Emim are lumbering and vicious, Rephaim are fast and cunning. Slightly smaller than the Emim, their appearance is truly alien, being nothing more than an upright torso connected to four multi-jointed legs. One pair is longer than the other and shaped similarly to that of a grasshopper's, allowing for incredible leaps. Though they may seem awkward, they are anything but and can move with an astounding agility. Their skin is also naturally electrified, so those who come too close to it risk getting fried. While they can be equipped with many weapon mounts, the most common is a flamethrower and a heavy machine gun combo.
Anakim
The most recent addition to the Nephilim creatures, the Anakim were created due to demands for a mass produced version to offset humanity's immense losses after the Aeon War. By far the smallest of the Nephilim, reaching a most a mere nine feet, they may not have the raw power of the Emim, but they are plenty dangerous in their own right. Their jaws are immensely powerful and their saliva is coated with a virulent cytotoxin. As such, they prefer to get up close so as to deliver a vicious bite or rake an enemy with their talons. When not receiving direct commands, the Anakim will utilize a pack mentality, functioning in a manner similar to wolves with an alpha member and various subordinates. Their weapons mounts tend to be lighter and relegated mostly to anti-infantry roles.
Author's note: Sorry it took so long, but a combination of writer's block and life hindered me a bit on this chapter. On the plus side, Mythos Effect now has its own TVtropes page! Yay! Thank you whoever it was that set it up!
Also, thanks AHooper2013 for keeping my creativity churning with his ideas.