The Rebel Faction

City Interior

Cilliun cut forward, lacing the retreating enemies with laserfire, most of them collapsing almost instantly. More children of Vorzyd dead. He’d resigned himself to it, now; that he would kill these noble pawns of greater men without mercy. So be it.

Nicks and pockmarks of laser blasts showed on his suit, but no substantial damage had been done. “Commodore Gevel orders all units to secure the buildings insofar as 900 meters into the city,” came a voice he did not recognize. The street in which he fought was almost vacated, now; completely abandoned by the defenders as they rushed towards the interior of the city.

Then came a voice he did recognize. “We are reaching the perimeter of the area ordered taken by the commander,” his suit informed him in its monotone voice. Cilliun nodded, shutting off his repulsorlifts and pulling the suit down at an intersection, firing off a few more blasts at the retreating Vorzydiaks.

Easily enough done.

Then, another voice crackled across his communicator. “This is… unit alpha sixteen, legion se… we’re experiencing heavy resistance and have been… isolated from main bulk of force!” It was the calm but urgent voice of one of the cloned Legionnaires. “…was ordered to forge ahead… cannot comply with order to regroup in…”

Cilliun looked behind him. Units of red-armored Stormtroopers rushed through the streets, taking control of the buildings quickly and easily, flushing out the occasional lone holdout.

Nothing but clones. Obedient and functional.

Cilliun knew Imperial protocol. He knew his duty obligated him to comply with orders; he knew that humanitarian initiatives, particularly for unimportant cloned soldiers, were not acceptable.

He knew all of this.

But were they not just obeying orders? What man deserves punishment for obedience? Did not the Empire’s creation of these men bind them to some sort of responsibility for their lives?

Yes, he knew all of this. And yet he powered up the Darktrooper suit’s repulsorlifts nonetheless, lifting less than a meter off of the ground, and rushing forward. “Display the origin of that transmission,” Cilliun ordered the suit. “And hurry up with it.” The ground rushed beneath them as he surged into territory still held by the enemy. A red blip appeared on the map in his heads-up display, and he twisted towards it.

“Darktrooper X1, what is your trajectory?” Came a heated query.

“Darktrooper X1?!”

A more familiar voice then crackled into his ear. “Goddamnit, Cilliun, what the hell are you doing?” Theren Gevel asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Pull back now, Commander Velus, do not engage the enemy, do not retrieve that unit!” Theren shouted.

“You made them,” Cilliun muttered. “And you won’t even save them.”

“You’re going to die with them, Cilliun,” Gevel said, ignoring the reply.

It was then that he realized, he didn’t care if he did.

As he blistered across the street, squads turned to face him, scarcely bringing their weapons to bear before he could cut them down. His trained senses guided the weapons of his suit as if by thought, launching a pair of rockets and slashing laserfire across the paths of his enemies, slaying one after another. Still on repulsors, he turned sharply down an alleyway, rushing into the center of a complex of broken buildings, crushed by a combination of falling debris and cannibalization for the construction of the defensive wall.

There, at the center, hiding amongst fallen rubble and assaulted at all angles by Vorzydiak troops, primarily on the exposed ground floors of the surrounding buildings, were twelve men, in their red armor, fighting valiantly.

Cilliun’s heart swelled in spite of himself. Such a sight he had never seen; each man fought in tandem with the others, using their cover to their advantage, ducking away and remerging, taking brilliantly placed shots. A Vorzydiak soldier even rushed forward, only to be cut down almost instantly by the swift strike of the Legionnaire with the butt of his gun, and a quick blast to the head. Even among these elite soldiers, such valor was remarkable.

Cutting the repulsorlifts and falling to the ground yet continuing to run without losing momentum, Cilliun ran into the fray. Quickly, he let loose a rocket into the exposed upper floor of one of the buildings, clearing it. Then, as he came up on the nearest of the squads, he loosed a torrent of laserfire. He crushed the skull of the nearest one, leaping over a chunk of duracrete, firing even still. He killed another, and another, firing and swiping violently with his suit’s right arm. “Sir!” He heard shouted into his ear by one of the Legionnaires, over his communicator.

Backtracking into the center of the alley, where various alleyways converged into one – or had, before the war had left these buildings little more than broken hulks covering the ground with their fallen parts – Cilliun continued to fire at those all around him, ducking and blasting, showering blood and fire. The Vorzydiaks closed in, their numbers superior. Two of them had the audacity to rush up, and were quickly and gruesomely killed by a close range laser blast and a swipe of the rocket launcher.

And still, he fought on, the Legionnaire squad behind him. Another alien fell, and another. Dropping like flies, but coming back again and again.

And then, all at once, it was over. The scene in Cilliun’s viewscreen shifted to that of a dark, gray sky, as he felt one of the enemy bolts strike home on his suit’s chest, penetrating armor, slicing circuitry. Laser blasts continued to move overhead, but he fell back, impacting painfully on the ground. The percussion alone was enough to nearly knock him unconscious.

He wasn’t sure what would kill him first; whether it would be the inevitable detonation of his Darktrooper suit, or perhaps that the laser blast had struck him in the chest, and this would spell his demise. Maybe the battle might even end, and he would be found and executed. Dimly, he wished for any end but that ignoble one.

Yes, as the world swam before his eyes and began to fade into the blackness of unconsciousness, he reflected that perhaps this was for the best. He was a broken man, a tired security officer and a tired soldier. A man exhausted by the death and killing, haunted by what he’d done and failed to do, irrationally drawn to being some sort of humanitarian soldier. What use had the Empire for a humanitarian warrior?

None. He was nothing but a lost and dismal human being, his life wasted, destined to wander what remained in dull-eyed numbness. Relying on the charity of an old friend to pluck him from the hellhole that his tired existence had landed him in.

An old friend that was as twisted as the men who had turned him into this; a cynical, bitter old soldier with nothing to live for. No friends, no love, no nothing. No hope. Trapped in a world of evil and hate in an endless cycle of killing that re-enacted itself daily, like a repeating number, drawing him further and further into its black hole, from which he could not emerge.

Condemned to live a hopeless life, killing those he did not believe should die, saving those he felt should and leaving behind those most deserving of his assistance. He was glad it would end this way. He hated what he had become; another chess piece, bound to act on command and play a part in a grand scheme not seeking checkmate, but total annihilation. At least he had died this way, failing to save someone or something.

Failing to save them, as he’d failed to save himself.

The world had no use for him, then, and he had no use for it. Good riddance.

But as he recited this mantra of self-loathing, and as the world faded to black at last, he could not miss the words that pierced it all. “Get him out of there!”

Just above the din of battle, but he heard it clearly.

He almost smiled.

Someone was trying to save him.

Theren Gevel stepped forward, avoiding the corpse on the ground, and fired brashly, pointing his blaster pistol over the pile of duracrete bags acting as a temporary barrier. Dilem, with his rifle, joined in, felling a squad that had begun to advance on their perimeter. Ultimately, of course, each fell in turn, either struck down by Theren’s impeccable marksmanship, Dilem’s surgical strikes of overwhelming fire, or the careful sniper fire from above.

The Imperial forces had set up several garrisons around the city, but this was the primary one. Still holed up in the core of the city were the Vorzydiaks, flanked on angles but not relenting in their struggle. This particular shelter had been set up in the shaded, somewhat defensible area under an overpass. On either side were massive concrete pillars providing makeshift walls; lengthways were the aforementioned walls of duracrete bags.

All through the enclave (of sorts) were the dead and wounded; Legionnaires, officers, and other enlisted men coughing and being tended to by medics. There were probably nearly a thousand men in the position, maybe half of which were wounded, though not all of those were unable to fight.

And still, no sign of Cilliun Velus.

“Sir,” Dilem said, jumping over a wounded Legionnaire to catch up with Gevel, “with all due respect, I am worried as well, but if he doesn’t return, we’re going to have to advance without him.”

Theren looked back at the Sergeant, fixing him with a cold look as if to ask whom he was referring to. Then he gave up the façade, shrugging. “Look around you, Dilem. Look at these men,” he said. He hadn’t realized how cold it was until he’d stopped fighting; his breath was visible, a constant reminder of the discomfort of his men hanging tauntingly in front of him. “This is pointless. One shot from the Zenith, a few hundred casualties on their side at most, and we’d be able to take them in a fucking hour.”

“What are you suggesting, then?” Dilem asked, somewhat rhetorically.

Theren deadpanned, answering anyway. “That if Cilliun doesn’t come back, we’re going to do just that.”

One of the senior officers approached him, saluting. “Sir, all perimeter defenses are established. Snipers in position, stationary guns active.”

The Governor nodded. “Sweep the surrounding buildings. Take anyone or anything you find inside prisoner. Have one of the junior officers take a full count of what we’ve got in the camp, and order anyone without a squad to join one.”

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced back at Dilem again. “I’m losing my patience for this fucking game.”

Unknown System

Prime Minister Grez Miff knelt abruptly, standing as quickly as he’d dropped. An individual like Grez Miff – with many places to be, all of them important – did not have the time for idiot formalities, no matter how strictly they were imposed. “Lord Admiral Lothar,” he greeted the man who had so quickly become his master. “My presence was requested, I believe,” he said, not in the Vorzydiak tongue, but in Basic.

The chamber was grand, unlit but spacious, the only light coming from the grand viewports that gave a magnificent view of open space, and whatever illumination the volcanic rock gave off.

His superior, cloaked as always in a thin but opaque black garment and hood, nodded. “Prime Minister. How goes the war with the Empire?”

Grez grunted. “Not well, my lord. Poorly, in fact. Vorzyd 5 has surrendered and there is no reason to think that Vorzyd 4 will not do the same.”

“These are things I already know, Prime Minister,” his superior drawled slowly, in fluent, aristocratic Basic. “But the fleet? Where is the fleet?”

“Pulled back, as you ordered,” Grez replied coolly, clenching his fists. “My lord, I cannot foresee the usefulness of a fleet if our worlds are defeated and conquered. When the Vorzyd Cluster has fallen, what then will we do? Lie in wait for the butchers to come and kill us in our sleep?”

“Not exactly,” Lothar replied. “Your lack of vision is, I must say, disappointing. Can you not see past the momentary comings and goings of history? The worlds themselves, the lives, are not consequential. All of that may be replaced one we have gained the victory we desire.”

“Replaced?” Grez Miff replied. “My lord, you speak as if the lives of my people are mere playthings – toys to be tossed away at your whim! Do not forget who it is that placed you into this position of power.”

“Who?” Lothar replied. “Who, pray tell, placed me here? Who claims to have power over me?”

Miff was silent.

“As I thought. I am the absolute power of the Vorzyd Cluster, Prime Minister; the sovereign king. Even if none of your people have the stomach to do what must be done – to make what sacrifices must be made – I do, and I will.”

Grez’s eyes narrowed. “No. No, I will not let this happen. I refuse to do it. I will go to the Confederation Council immediately. I will not let my people be the sacrificial lamb upon which you forge this – this empire, this glorious future you believe you will usher into being. The Council will deny you your power.”

The door to the dark chamber opened and closed behind him. In stepped another thin humanoid with antennae; despite the reduced visibility, Grez recognized him as Tonyn Fir, wealthy executive and native of Vorzyd 5. “Councilor Fir has just come from the signing of a number of special defense acts, approving my plan,” Lothar said evenly in that infuriatingly calm tone.

Fir nodded. “Lord Admiral Lothar has made a very generous offer of compensation.”

Grez turned back to the shadowed Lord, furious. “You’ve bought them!”

“The people of Vorzyd 5 are so wonderfully like mine insofar as their primary motivation is self-interest. You see, Prime Minister Miff, money is power in any capitalist culture; in melding together the two worlds of the Vorzyd Cluster, the balance of power created is rather askew. That is to say: those who are motivated solely by greed have it, and those who are not, do not.”

At the Siegeguard Wall,
Vorzyd 4

From a vantage point roughly half way up the defensive wall, Cilliun Velus could survey the preparations of the Imperial troops. Trenches and bunkers had been constructed; laser cannons mounted on the wall and stationed on the ground. Guard towers were filled with sharpshooters, and artillery was placed behind the wall. AT-AT walkers were quickly gathering, as were the MT-ATs, tanks, and Darktroopers.

Beyond this, however, Cilliun could see very little. The horizon was an opaque line where white sky met white ground in an oblivious show of nothingness. Word soon came down from Gevel’s office of the approaching danger, however; while it was not a surprise, it was not a comforting idea, either. “What sort of force are we talking about?” Cilliun asked. “Some bloody little bunch of grunts sent to harass us.”

Alpha One shook his head slowly, as the commlink buzzed in his ear. “No. This is the final push, he says. We are looking at a force more than equivalent to our own, in number. We are to prepare ourselves.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Cilliun commented sarcastically as Alpha One put down the commlink. Alpha squad – with the remaining members of Epsilon squad and more reinforcements sent down to replace that ill-fated unit – had become an adopted home for Cilliun, with the Centurion assisting him in the command of the defense of Siegeguard.

“You do not seem confident in an Imperial victory,” Alpha One commented.

Cilliun glanced at him, and almost made a caustic remark, until he reminded himself of the nature of all Legionnaires. It wasn’t his intention to be aggravating, only helpful. “The commodore isn’t, and that’s the problem right fucking there. He’s so caught up in a quick, easy solution to everything that he’s prepared to bombard the planet.”

“That is a standard Imperial tactic.”

“And that makes it right?” Cilliun asked bitterly. “Do the ends always justify the means when it comes to this empire? When does a monstrosity become too great to commit it in the name of justice? Does it ever?”

The helmeted face of Alpha One stared at Cilliun for a long time. “I only know that I must fight, because that is my purpose. I put my trust in the commodore, and in you.”

Cilliun smirked slightly – very slightly. He was reminded why he took solace in the company of Alpha Squad, 13th Century, 3rd Legion. There was a beautiful simplicity to the life of these Legionnaires – one, perhaps, not corrupted by grand morality and the futility of the universe, but instead revolving around loyalty, honor, and strength. There were, Cilliun reflected, worse ways to live than that. The past several days had been some of the best in his life, throwing his full effort into work on the defenses, fighting alongside his newfound compatriots, saving Alpha One’s life at least once and probably having his saved in turn.

How he longed to embrace that simplicity. To become a warrior, a soldier who trusts his commander universally and obeys without thinking; to revel in the glory of combat and the good company of one’s fellows. But for a mind already mired in a myriad of ethical questions driven by a set of morals so very different than the Empire’s, that was impossible.

To say that Cilliun believed in the Empire, as some who described his particular brand of loyalty (which was without any real fealty to one’s superiors) had, was a misnomer of sorts. He didn’t really believe in anything – not the Force, not god or the Empire. He only believed in himself, in tugging he felt in his heart every time evil was committed in front of him. He believed in his heart of hearts that one universal order of peace and justice – the vision that served as the justification for the brutality of the Empire – would benefit the galaxy.

But he could not deny the cries of his conscience. The solace of the simple life of valor among servants was a temporary one at best. As Cilliun Velus stared out at the long cold expanse of the battlefield before him, and in at the long cold expanse of the battlefield within his heart, he realized that the cracks in his soul ran deeper than he had ever imagined they would. And he knew that the rest he had known over the past several days was never to be again – that what was coming now would be too horrible, too close to what he had run from Alsakan to escape, ever to forget.

And, smiling as he was at the confident Alpha One, he nearly wept.

On the Battlefield,
Vorzyd 4

Cilliun Velus did not tear forward, though the Darktrooper suit’s repulsorlifts certainly would have permitted him to. He approached at a measured pace in tandem with Alpha Squad, laser cannons firing away. Smoothly, he switched his main carried weapon over to disruptor mode, and fired a blast into the enemy formation, vaporizing a number of them. The battle was going well; the advancing Imperial force swept away all resistance. No short-range combat had even taken place. “On your left,” came Alpha Two’s voice. Cilliun let loose a salvo of missiles, homing in on an enemy tank that led their formation and tearing through it.

“Keep moving forward,” Cilliun commanded all forces. “Steady pace. Armor, close up on the left side.”

Then, hell began to break loose. From above, an artillery shell – presumably launched by an enemy hovertank – sliced into the Imperial formation behind Alpha Squad, sending up a geyser of dirt, fire, snow and blood and shaking the ground like an earthquake. The advance became faster; soon, the Imperial forces met head-on with the Vorzydiak army, and the killing began in earnest.

Surrounded by his squad, Cilliun too began in earnest. Blazing away with his laser cannon, he cut swaths through the enemy with mighty blasts of red fire. A hovertank nearby swept through Imperial troops brutally; without even thinking, he targeted it and fired. “One of the members of Alpha Squad is in danger,” the suit informed him, drawing his attention on the heads-up display towards it with a red reticule. Alpha Five was nearly surrounded, falling back quickly as the ConfedVor infantry fired upon him.

According to Cilliun’s sensors, a hole had been forged into the center of the Vorzydiak formation. “Into the gap in their formation!” Cilliun shouted. “All available squads move in. Armor, fire ahead of them, clear a path.” Above, red laserfire rained down to his north.

Cilliun’s suit swaggered over, lasers blazing, slaughtering Five’s aggressors. He swept the butt of the laser cannon down on the head of the closest one, crushing it. “Thanks,” Alpha Five acknowledged, but his words were almost drowned out by the roar of TIE Defenders overhead.

Fire reigned around him, smoke filling the air as the acrid fumes of burning flesh and metal pervaded all. “Forward, into the breach between those tanks,” said Alpha One, and the squad followed, Cilliun providing the heavy support. The two hulks had been crushed by their own armor fire, and stood scarcely ten meters apart. But as they rushed into the breach, firing at the enemies they passed on both sides, a squad emerged from behind the charred wrecks to ambush them.

At close range, they came from either side, firing quickly and decisively. At least one of Alpha Squad’s Legionnaires fell immediately. Cilliun moved his suit to the fore, lacing them with laser fire. He launched several missiles at the destroyed tank behind one half of the enemy squad, incinerating four of its members instantly. Hacking downward with his laser cannon, he slammed one of the Vorzydiaks back into the other tank, the impact alone enough to shatter his skull open.

“One of them has readied a T.D.,” warned the suit quickly, almost frantically, perhaps fearing for its own life as it used the term for “thermal detonator”. A reticule appeared on the perpetrator, and a few laser blasts later, he was dead and the miniature bomb had exploded, raining gore all around and killing the Vorzydiaks around him.

Now, with the red of Legionnaires pressing in on them from all sides, they flew into the aforementioned gap in the enemy formation, firing consistently. Ahead and above loomed a massive, bizarre bipedal walker of Vorzydiak construct, gunning down at the troops below. Alpha Squad moved through the sea of humanity, drawing closer to the behemoth. “Get that targeting information,” Cilliun ordered the suit.

“Gathering,” it replied. Cilliun continued firing, launching several rockets at the surrounding infantry. Laser blasts zinged by, a few pecking and pinging at his suit but doing little substantial damage. He dove to avoid a laser cannon blast, landing (intentionally) on a Vorzydiak soldier. An ignoble death, no doubt, and one that covered the suit in blood.

“Complete.”

“Forward it to the walkers,” Cilliun replied, pulling back slightly to rejoin Alpha Squad. As he continued to blaze away, slaying Vorzydiak after Vorzydiak, the reticule jumping from hostile to hostile as one after another was tore apart by the disproportionately large laser blasts, he glanced occasionally at the Vorzyd walker. On the fifth glance, something finally happened; one of the Imperial walker blasts took it in the head, and slowly it tumbled down upon its own men, certainly killing many. A TIE Defender rushed by, slashing at its neck joint with laser blasts until it erupted like a volcano, sending shrapnel and fire all around.

But then, something happened that Cilliun had not intended. The Vorzydiaks seemed to regroup, and on his sensors – as well as before his very eyes – they severed the group that had rushed into the enemy formation from the primary mass of men, a disembodied head surrounded and flanked by the enemy. And this comprised a sizable portion of the overall Imperial force.

Suddenly, in a heartbreaking split-second, it became crystal clear to Cilliun. All of the conversations he’d had with Theren Gevel over the past several days. He knew what lay in his old friend’s mind, he knew what the governor was willing to risk and what he wasn’t. He knew the blunder he had made, and he saw the two choices laid out evenly before Theren. And he knew what he would choose.

He glanced at the squad that surrounded him. An appealing life; one of mental safety and security, of simplicity and glory. But one that ultimately could not save his soul. Theren Gevel was going to order his Reign-Class Star Destroyer to bombard the planet, utterly wiping out the enemy force. He would probably strike at least one city, as well. This much was absolutely certain; stopping it was a pipe dream.

But Cilliun Velus, thrashing as violently and impotently as he had that fateful day at the trial of Alvas Murphy for the brutal rape, mutilation and murder of Myra Chang, would not accept this. He powered up his repulsorlifts, blazing away from Alpha Squad. He sliced into the enemy formation like a hot knife into butter, launching missile after missile, firing viciously with his laser cannon. Reports of demise and destruction from the flanked Imperial squads poured in, so he shut them off.

Pushing the repulsorlifts to their limits, piloting in a way most men could not, Cilliun was propelled by a combination of blind rage and righteous fire. Ultimately, though he could not save these men, it was only by killing them that he would ever have been able to spare them total annihilation. His suit slammed into Vorzydiaks, crushing them, killing them, their blood staining the durasteel and splattering his viewscreen. He slashed at them, crushed them, shot them, firing into their tanks and sending the fires of destruction a mile high.

Slash, kill, and burn, fire and murder. Blood filled his vision and his mind. He hated the Vorzydiaks for being so fucking stupid, for fighting mindlessly past the point of no return. He hated them because the only way to save them was to kill them. He hated them because he could not save them, because he was going to watch them die in a turbolaser holocaust and not be able to save them. He hated the Machiavellian murderer Theren had become. He hated the Legionnaires for their blissful ignorance, for the tantalizingly untouchable vision of absolute happiness. But most of all, he hated the unjust, absurd universe for making the only goals worth achieving unachievable but by the selling of your soul; for putting the lives of good but foolish men in the hands of monsters; for bestowing him with a sense of morality; for pushing about mortals like playthings, marionettes made to kill one another for no reason at all; and for spilling yet more blood on his unwilling hands.

And as he cursed whatever bastard god had made him with all his heart in the darkest moment of his life, the orbital bombardment began like nuclear rain. The purifying fire spiraled into the sky and was visible for miles.