Terran Commonwealth · Epsilon Prime · Garipan — War Planning Department

  Time: 2510-10-29, Before Dawn

  "Looking at the data alone, we can't feel the pressure," Jack Harlan said in a low voice, staring at the red, continuously bleeding star map representing Garrow Hill. "Leo, patch in the raw frontline footage. Highest encryption level, pull the raw stream directly."

  "Patching in now… Source: 201st Mechanized Infantry Division, 3rd Regiment Commander—Colonel Gage's battle recorder," Leo responded, a faint, imperceptible tension in his voice. "The signal is volatile, heavy interference."

  The screen first filled with static snow, then was replaced by an image: it was shaking violently, the camera at times jerking to the ground, at others aiming at a giant-like figure.

  [REC] 201st Mech. Inf. Div. // 3rd Rgt. Commander: COL. Gage[HUD: WARNING // ATMOSPHERIC EM INTERFERENCE 320% // VISUAL_FEED_UNSTABLE]

  In the footage, Gage stood behind a half-formed trench. He was tall and crude, like an oak from an old era, propping up the surrounding order with that heavy energy cannon. The muzzle continuously spat flames, smoke, and shrapnel, churning at his feet.

  Suddenly, he dove to the side into a trench, the camera following: right where he had been standing, a shell blasted the ground into a black hole, and the spot where his feet had been was torn apart. The shockwave knocked the heavy cannon askew.

  The camera zoomed in—Gage grinned, spat a curse, took off his canteen for two hard swigs of liquor, and poured the rest on his leg to staunch the bleeding. Blood flowed down his leg, soaking his pant cuff. The soldiers, panicked yet with a near-instinctive calm, immediately rushed forward to tear cloth for a tourniquet. One was busy pulling out shrapnel, the knife's edge squeezing out black debris and hot blood from the skin.

  He threw a handful of extracted shrapnel onto the muddy ground, gritted his teeth, and roughly tied the wound with a military belt, the motion as crisp as a drill maneuver. His face was contorted in the smoke and sweat, then it returned to a smile—a crude, bloody smile: "This damn shell is so accurate it makes me want to retire and become a carpenter!"

  For the next few minutes, the artillery barrage clung like a dog that wouldn't let go. Federation artillery finally calibrated the feedback and suppressed the enemy artillery positions one by one; the explosions gradually subsided, and the ground's surface was pocked with blasted craters, like overturned furnace ash.

  The soldiers, like rats after a downpour, crawled out of the pits, half-wet, half-covered in mud. Gage shoved a stunned soldier aside, snatched the standard-issue energy rifle from his hands, and stood up again with a roar, continuing to face the fireline as if he were still in command. He held the gun as if challenging death itself, the metallic flames kicking up circles of sparks.

  In the command room, Jack watched quietly. There was something complex in his eyes: both a respect for this kind of humanity and a faint, hidden pain. Men like that could hold a unit together, but they were also the easiest to be wrung dry by orders.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The image suddenly switched: in the distance, columns of beast-type mechs sped through the artillery fire, as if to tear through every defensive sector. They moved with agility, like crawling monsters on the steep slopes, their energy shields only producing a hazy ripple under conventional fire.

  Leo's hands danced across the console. For the first time, shock was evident in his voice: "Sir, enemy unit identified—quadrupedal, high mobility, capable of operating on eighty-degree rock faces. Energy shields partially absorb conventional munitions. Cross-referencing… confirmed—Tartarus Legion, 'Wraith' special ops mech!"

  In the footage, Gage saw this scene. The camera captured his face in the muddy water, his eyes like fire, yet also calculating. He ordered the communications officer to call for heavy artillery support; at the same time, he pressed the recorder tight against his chest, as if to bring all this back as evidence.

  Then, he ordered his deputy commander to take over the line; he took a battalion with him and charged toward the 4th Regiment's defensive line—he was going to reinforce the 4th Regiment commander, the man he argued with all the time. His steps were heavy, his wild laughter carried on the wind, sounding like both the arrogance of victory and the fervor before death.

  "If they can't make it up, they'll all die there." On the screen, Leo pulled up the survival probability curve. The numbers coldly displayed reality: the probability of survival plummeted, like a falling marker.

  "He's going to die," Leo stated, as if presenting a mathematical fact.

  "Yeah," Jack said in a low voice, "but before he dies, he's still a man."

  Gage charged toward the fireline with his men. The last sound from the recorder was his laugh, mixed with wind and explosions. An energy shell detonated in front of him; the image was momentarily washed out by the light, and then it turned to noise.

  [HUD: CRITICAL DAMAGE // VISUAL_FEED LOST][SIGNAL LOST]

  The screen went black. The control room was so quiet you could hear the pulse of the air conditioning.

  Jack stood for a long time before speaking, his voice a little hoarse: "Mark his record, and the 201st Division's designation, for the highest honors."

  Leo executed the command silently.

  Jack closed his eyes, but Gage's wild laugh at the moment he was consumed by the explosion, like a photograph that couldn't be turned over, remained hung in his mind. Clausewitz was using these real soldiers as actors on a stage, trading their blood and bones for scenes of visible tragedy.

  "No." Jack's eyes snapped open, his tone now carrying an icy weight. "Leo, pull the view up to geosynchronous orbit. The entire planet."

  "Huh?" Leo was stunned for a moment, but he complied.

  A holographic image of the planet replaced the battlefield. The blue sphere representing Epsilon Prime was covered by a grid. Several symbols that had previously been marked as "space debris" or "civilian relays" were now simultaneously emitting high-intensity energy pulses. They were like an ignited hive, the points of light rising in sync.

  Leo's voice was a bit unsteady: "The scale is massive… that's not a scattered civilian reaction, it's a fully organized Imperial assault fleet assembling in orbit."

  In the bottom left corner of the main screen, a diagnostic box flashed for an instant, like a silent prompt from a guardian process:

  [PATTERN MATCH] EYE // ANOMALY_SCORE 0.94

  A few people saw the line, but it was immediately drowned out by other alerts—a piece of evidence as small as a needle's eye, passing through the noise without being amplified.

  Jack stared at the red dots quietly assembling in orbit, a bone-deep chill seeping into his heart. The sacrifice of Gage and thousands of soldiers on the mountain was arranged as a prelude: to fix everyone's gaze on the ground, to cover for the truly fatal move.

  He understood the whole picture: the tragedy at Garrow Hill wasn't the end, but a cover; the real knife was falling from the quiet above.