Praxxus 7.
To most of the galaxy, it is simply nothing more than one of several natural sattilites…moons, orbiting the homeworld of the Vortians, the most technologically advanced species of the universe, known anyway, of planet Vort. Large enough to sustain settlement and mining operations for the homeworld, it is a necessity in the Vortian economy.
To the Irken, however…
This was the sight of one of the most humiliating, recent defeats of their prestigious military history. Operation Impending Doom was, well…doomed from the start, all thanks, more blame than anything, on one, insignificant Invader known as Zim.
Indeed Zim's meddling managed to nearly destroy Irk, but Praxxus 7, the first and last campaign of Impending Doom I, failed for that very reason. Reinforcements and supplies, as well as other campaign operation fleets were all destroyed or damaged beyond combat effectiveness, leaving those already planetside on Praxxus…without aid. Even those spared by Zim's destructive swath were busy with clean-up and restoration efforts to keep the rest of the planet from falling into chaos.
Yet, unknown to them at the time, 10 different soldiers of colorful training backgrounds, specializing in their respective fields, would have their destiny made in the conclusion of the Praxxus 7 campaign. Even the one to bring them together hadn't envisioned his life would be forever changed.
Heavy incoming casualties didn't help matters any either. Mortality rate was hovering around 50% on the ground, but deemed "necessary" by field commanders seeing what progress was being made. Intel was horrible due to Vortian scrambling, and a majority of what military complexes were present on the moon were subterranean and unseen on imaging. To top it off, underestimating the military might of the former ally to the Irken Empire was a colossal error on their behalf.
That all didn't matter in the field, all the planning and strategy in the universe wouldn't help. It was all promptly thrown out the window as soon as boots touched the soil and battle became apparent. All that mattered then was surviving, take their lives…or have yours taken.
To Lt. Vult, that was more apparent than anything else in the entire universe.
He lay in the churned-up soil from Vortian shelling only moments prior in a crater, his unit and fellow squadmates in a similar situation at the berms of their respective positions.
The crescendo of battle raged, plasma rounds streaking through the darkened sky, illuminating all that they passed. A barrage of light magenta-pink and teal, white-hot blue crisscrossed from the opposing sides, the occasional grenade being thrown.
Even in the distance, the steady pounding thumps of the Deathwave Cannons firing in volleys for artillery support. Battlemechs and vehicles alike from both sides clashed mid-field.
Due to the Praxxus 7 landscape and Vortian complexes, warfare with the cutting-edge technology meant nothing in archaic battlefront warfare. A literal line of Irken positions on one side, the "dead zone" between the two nothing more than charred, barren landscape, and the dug-in defensive emplacements of the Vortians.
Between the intense, grand scale of a firefight, the radio chatter as orders and information were issued and relayed over the various channels, and the cries of agony and pain from both sides as they were felled in brutal fashion, all that could be used to describe the scene was complete and utter chaos as its finest.
"Comms, where's the DW support at?" Vult demanded as he squeezed off well-aimed plasma rounds from his rifle, keeping a lower profile. "Our advance is stalled until they soften those positions up! Wait around too long and they'll regroup and be all over us!"
The communications officer, standing out amongst his fellow soldiers with a large radio and antenna array on his back, accompanying headphones placed on his head."
"They're covering their standard pattern, Sir!" He responded back, ducking out of instinct as a grenade went off just outside of the crater, raining dirt and debris down on them. "They'll be hitting your requested coordinates in a matter of minutes!"
"We don't have a matter of minutes!" Vult yelled back, ejecting the spend power cell in his rifle, watching it simply fall to the ground as he slid a new one in, slamming the top of the weapon back down, locking it in place. It automatically charged up as he prepared to continue fending off the Vortians.
"Orders, Sir?!" Another soldier questioned, fright in his magenta eyes as he clutched his rifle with vigor. His arms were trembling greatly, barely able to hold his plasma rifle.
"Head down and sights downrange!" The Lt. ordered without hesitation. He didn't need cowards under his command, but willing and able soldiers, "Reinforcements are on their way and artillery support is coming, just stay alert and drop anything that isn't Irken!"
About that time, a large explosion erupted violently, taking with it the soldier he was just speaking to in a fireball of plasma energy and coating the area with yet another fresh layer of dirt and debris.
Vult adjusted his positioning to prevent himself from falling out from his cover into the newly created opening in the berm of his crater he called home at the moment, as well as to shake off the collected soil to prevent from being buried alive. He looked to his rear over his shoulder, watching the stragglers of his invasion unit finally regrouping, carrying the larger weapons they needed at the moment.
"Get that Heavy Plasma Cannon up here now!" Vult ordered without missing a beat. Being in command, each and every one of these soldiers' lives were in his hands, but so was the priority of sticking to the mission and completing it. "Slot those filthy, horned scum!"
The duo rushed forward through the hail of plasma fire, luckily making it unscathed to the opening in the crater wall. Like clockwork, the assistant gunner slammed the tripod into the ground, stabilizing it, while the gunner attached the large swiveling weapon a top it, and heated it up for firing all in one motion.
The HPC came to life with rumbling vigor as it pumped out hundreds of large plasma bolts in a near steady stream, doing its intended job of "suppressive fire". That meant that it was literally mowing down any Vortians unlucky enough to be caught in the sights of it. The trio of barrels unleashed a rapid stream of bolts as they spun in succession, cutting out a unique, macabre tempo of brutality.
A Vortian Commander, his battle dress quite different from his soldiers gave a signal, but even his voice carried to the Irken line. He was quite prominent to say the least, even at the distance between the lines.
"The Irken tyrants are too strong! Fall back!"
"Now's our chance," Vult thought to himself as he stood to his feat while the chatter of the HPC continued, "load up, on your feet, charge!"
Only a handful, ten or fifteen at best out of his hundred soldier unit was on their feet, reloading their weapons, even a couple of them were reluctant at that after having a taste of combat. Combat effectiveness was a joke to mention at this point.
"Belay that, Sir," The communications officer spoke respectfully of his superior's rank, gaining Vult's attention. He appeared to be intently listening into his communications headset.
"On what grounds, Comms? We have the Vortians retreating and their numbers dwindling fast. At this rate, it will be only a matter of hours before we conquer this pathetic moon and hit the homeworld in full force."
"…it's a…Priority 1 Directive from Armada Command, Sir." He informed, almost unable to comprehend the idea.
Those nearby were stricken with awe at the idea.
Without a word, the battle-hardened Lt. approached and snatched the headset off of his head, raking the communication officer's antenna painfully in the process. Lt. Vult placed the headset on his own dirt-covered, blood-smeared head.
"I repeat, this is a Priority 1 Directive by decree of the Almighty Tallest themselves," the hollow voice of someone that hadn't seen the battle with their own eyes, nor ever set foot on a field, continued to speak in a monotone, but remained clear, "All Irken Armada forces of the Empire taking part in Operation Impending Doom are to immediately withdraw from operations and return to Irk…"
Devastation didn't even begin to cover what he, those around him, and any proud soldier of the Irken Empire was feeling. Simply removing the headset, he still stood there in awe, nay, shock after hearing his own leaders, the all-knowing, all-powerful leaders they had all come to know and respect and would lay their lives down for them and the sanctity of the Empire without question had…betrayed them. They had done what no other leader had done before, and it wasn't for the better.
Almighty Tallest Red and Purple had issued the Irken Empire's first "withdraw", the politically correct and disgusting term for "retreat".
"Retreat" wasn't in the Irken repertoire, nor was "defeat", yet, on this day, they met both unexpectantly.
His Elite Guard uniform, a dark violet, was pocked with carbon scoring from near misses, no longer pristine, was beaten and battered, matching the soldier wearing it. Only after paying a sacrifice in blood for the name of the Empire and to be told to retreat was an utter disgrace and shame of the once seemingly invincible Armada. Even so…orders were orders, and disobeying them had unwanted…consequences.
"Everyone that can walk, on your feet," Vult began solemnly, the force in his voice lackluster at best, "carry the wounded that can make it…put the others out of their misery."
"All that sacrifice…paid in blood…Irken blood, the very same that flows in my veins," Vult thought as the dozen or so soldiers assumed a patrol formation as they followed their commanding officer, "…for nothing. Nothing was gained, and we lost considerably. Out of 100 soldiers, 30 of them were killed in the initial invasion landing only a mere 14 hours ago, and now I'm walking the rest of them, a meager 17 at combat effectiveness, in retreat back to Irk, empty handed."
Other slowly joined, the mass continually growing as dozens turned to hundreds, hundreds to thousands, a wave of the Irken Empire's finest with heads hung in disgrace stepped over their fallen comrades and enemy soldiers alike, the blood-soaked territory they had fought tooth-and-nail for mere hours ago. They appeared much like Vult did in appearance with their armor far from pristine, many with minor wounds, and a depressing posture to match. Vehicles growled together into an angry hum as they slowly kept pace, battlemechs stepping in sync with one another.
Even now, the Irken Lieutenant could tell that he wasn't the only one to take heavy casualties. He would only see one or two soldiers from the same unit here and there, while groups larger than 3 and 4 were rare. Their eyes also seemed to drift to Vult and his unit, the only one in sight with double digits.
The weary Lt. could almost hear the celebrations, laughing, and even taunting of the Vortians, watching the most powerful army in the entire universe turn away from their objective and essentially run home. It made Vult cringe at the idea of an inferior species, regardless of the former alliance, being victorious over the mighty Irken Empire.
Vortians did have a similar code of conduct to the Irken, hence the well structured military, but he truly didn't mind if one of them put a plasma bolt in his back…at least the sickening pain of a bitter defeat would go away.
It didn't matter to the "brass" as many groundpounders had come to know the higher-ups that decided their fates on a daily basis without remorse. Irken were artificially created, and quickly replaced as soon as the KIA signal reached the birthing facilities. Mere seconds between the loss of a life and creation of another to replace it, all computer controlled and anticipated.
Life didn't have much merit when you knew you could easily be replaced without a second though, but thanks to the manipulations and integration of the PAK into their physiology, it phased out any and all objection to the idea. Free will was still present…for those that kept their mouths shut and didn't attract attention.
Those who spoke out against the Empire or anything to do with it usually disappeared a couple days later. The likely cause was deactivation for being "defective"…for not fitting the pre-described mold set in place for every single individual of the Irken race to follow.
It didn't matter to contemplate the morality or ethics, it was how things were, and will be. The system was specifically designed and engineered to eliminate naysayers.
Vult, on the other hand, was still loyal to the Irken Empire, and would bring the universe to its knees in the name of the Almighty Tallest at the drop of a hat, but something was…troubling him.
These soldiers…they depended on him, trusted him, and followed orders without question, much like any good Irken would in the field, but that was what bothered him the most…a sickening feeling in the deepest pit of his squeedly spooch that gnawed at him.
They blindly followed him into oblivion, yet he was entitled to walk away unscathed.
No…he would carry the psychological impact with him for the rest of his days.
"Never again…" Vult thought as the hundreds of dropships broke over the horizon, more landing, and the many ships of a fleet that belonged to the Armada. It wasn't anywhere near the size of the escort fleet The Massive had, but impressive to say the least. "Never again will I sacrifice others for such a cause unless I too am willing to die for it. I will be struck down and lay in the field beside them."
The dropships were clouded in silence, not an easy feat when each held several hundred Irken soldiers. Ascending was also more gently than punching through the atmosphere of alien worlds and landing hard, hitting the ground running. Vult looked around, his unit still present, or what was left of it, but noticed the others were just as equally distraught from being pulled away unwillingly, as well as friends and comrades dead without a reason or a goal to fight for.
A quick shuttle from planetside to the numerous warships of the Irken Armada in formation around Praxxus 7 returned the ground forces to their respective vessels. What was more frightening the severe lack of medical attention aboard the spacecraft.
It was fiscally draining for anything past moderate wounds and healthcare, and Irken were always instructed at the rudimentarily levels to simply "suck it up" and keep going. Sure, the PAK, what made an Irken…an Irken, would administer treatment, but it only seemed to aid with minor wounds, not mending gaping, shredded holes from shrapnel.
The philosophy seemed to be if they were still on two feet and not holding their organs in their hands, they were good to go. Anything worse, such as ruptured organs and/or missing body parts weren't covered by the medical staff unless it was a slow day. Today was far from it, and even those with injuries the doctors and surgeons could contend with was going to be difficult because of the sheer volume of wounded. It wouldn't be all that surprising to see some of these soldiers die from blood loss or shock if they aren't reached in time.
Come to think of it, he had never seen other soldiers minus appendages or other anatomical parts still in the field. Those that survived said crippling injuries usually found menial tasks or desk jobs, depending on the severity and if they're mentality was intact.
More or less to make sure he wasn't shot and didn't know it, he got a quick scan from a nearby medical station, checking out with a clean bill of health. Minus a few lacerations from close calls with debris and shrapnel about his unprotected face and head. The lack of a helmet for frontline troops, especially the Elite Guard, all except for a useless high metal collar that covered his mouth, was disturbing to say the least. He had personally seen many deaths on Praxxus 7 be avoided…if they had only had helmets.
Vult sat down in the cavernous hangar bay of the Ringcutter cruiser. The name of the vessel escaped him, but it wasn't his job to know that. It was his job to fight for the Empire, nothing more…nothing less. Wearily, he exhaled as he rest his head against the bulkhead, awaiting his soldiers, of whom were in literal lines for medical attention as if they were ordering food.
The Lt. closed his eyes for a bit of rest, something he hadn't had in the maelstrom planetside of Praxxus 7, 14 long, bloody, terrifying hours of grinding across the terrain in hopes to uproot the defenders…all for naught. Almighty Tallest or not giving the order to retreat, he was quite upset with their decision to do so.
It didn't matter anymore, nothing he could say or do would change the course taken. All Vult could do now was take in solstice that he survived something many others of his people had not. Even then, it was a minute, pyrrhic victory.
"Just rest my eyes for a bit…" he commented to himself, feeling the onset of sleep beginning to overtake him, combined with the small doses of painkillers and relaxants that his PAK automatically triggered after sensing the range of his injuries. Due to an unforeseen piece of shrapnel, very small at that, was lodged in the side of his PAK, and had damaged the medical supplement delivery system.
Minutes of rest turned into hours as he sat there, rifle laying across his lap. Unaware of the time passed, Lt. Vult awoke from his slumber, nearly blinded as another Irken shone light into his eyes.
"Good to see you're awake, Lieutenant," a female voice, soft and caring at that, spoke.
Once his vision focused once more, he immediately noticed that she was considerably taller than he was, by a few inches easily. Medical Officer or not, she still outranked him because of her stature.
In their society, regardless of anything else, the taller you were, the more power and command you wielded, hence why the Almighty Tallest were their leaders.
It was extremely rare, but she also possessed deep blue eyes, they accented her absurdly white uniform with black gloves and boots, brandished the Irken Medical Corps symbol on the shoulder, a matching cap and protective goggles strapped atop her head. Her antenna curled at the ends much like most females of their species, but hers faced slightly outwards, almost in a drooping fashion. Accompanied by her soft-spoken voice, she was very timid to say the least.
Vult slowly rose up, holding his head. He felt a little woozy at best.
"What happened to me, Ma'am?" Vult politely asked, rubbing his temples, trying to get the sensation to go away.
"I found this…" she informed quietly, showing him a sliver of razor-sharp metal about two inches long, "lodged in your PAK. I'm not an expert on the PAK itself, but I quickly noticed the side-effects. It appears to have damaged your pain suppression and medical assessment modules and applied an overdose of chemicals into your body for your wounds. Nothing else appears to be damaged other than those two modules, and I already replaced them. Accompanied by fatigue, it was only inevitable that you passed out…Lieutenant." A hint of embarrassment as she finished, remembering that as a soldier, he knew very little of what she spoke of, not to mention he was already clouded in judgment from the painkillers.
"I see…" Vult nodded, understanding the concept rather well to her surprise, "Thank you, Ma'am."
"Think nothing of it, Lieutenant," She meekly smiled, "it is my job, nothing more, nothing less."
The end of her statement caused Vult's antenna to perk up with fully grasped attention…and curiosity. It sounded oddly close to home.
"Permission to speak freely, Ma'am?"
"…Granted." The Medical Officer hesitantly answered, unsure of Vult's motives.
"May I ask what your name is? You did save my life after all. Between you and me, I'd rather die with glory for the Empire than falling into a drug-induced coma, so it's pretty significant for me to say the least."
She avoided a frown at how devoted he was to death, but soldiers were soldiers after all, and that was how they were programmed to be.
"…Sula," she spoke, shyly hiding her face with embarrassment, "Medical Officer Sula. Much like yourself, Lieutenant, I was assigned to…Praxxus 7, not as a soldier, but as a field medic."
"Are you Irken Elite?" Vult continued to make conversation as if he was speaking with a life-long friend.
"No, Imperial Trooper," she answered. Imperial Troopers were the lowest rung on the ladder of Armada ground forces.
Imperial Troopers, Irken Elite, Special Operations (Spec Ops), and Honor Guard rounded out that list. Spec Ops was explained fully in the name, missions and operations that couldn't normally be handled by standard means, and the Honor Guard was a legend amongst the entire Empire. The Almighty Tallests' personal army, sort of speak, of the highest caliber of soldier, as well. Their numbers are unknown, but estimated in the thousands at least.
It was about this time that Vult finally noticed he was in a small shuttle craft, not the large Ringcutter, and the homeworld of Irk coming into view. Praxxus 7 was many, many lightyears away from Irk, and would have taken at least 10 hours of travel at FTL. That would have meant he had been unconscious for at least that long, if not more to have no recollection of it.
Sula seemed to simply accompanying him to ensure he woke from his overdose of painkillers, but other than her, there were only the pilots at the front of the vessel.
"Why aren't we on the Ringcutter, Ma'am?" Vult asked of his height superior as she seemed to be packing the remainder of her medical equipment back into the various pockets and pouches about her belt and uniform.
Without an answer, the co-pilot handed Sula a datapad, whom promptly handed it to Vult.
"These are your orders, Lieutenant," Sula spoke informatively, watching as the deep magenta surface of Irk continued to come into view. "One of the Communications Officers who was delivering your orders found you against the bulkhead in the hangar, unconscious, and promptly called for medical attention. I came along to ensure you were going to be fine and recover."
Vult was nearly taken back as he scrolled through the datapad, eyes wide with surprise.
"What in the name of Irk is this all about?" He thought, taking in what was written before him.
Att: Lieutenant Vult, Irken Elite, 332nd Regiment
Authority: Almighty Tallest Red and Purple of the Irken Empire
*FOR YOUR EYES ONLY*
Security Level: 9
Lt. Vult, you are to personally report in audience of the Almighty Tallest ASAP. Your orders for this action will be fully disclosed then and only then. You are to report to our palace upon Irk by 2100 hours. That is all for now.
"What could the Almighty Tallest possibly want with me?" He thought, shaking his head slightly in disbelief as he continued to study the information, lulling it over in his head.
For Lt. Vult, his life and destiny was about to be shaped and changed forever…