Bem

The first, bruise-colored light of dawn seeped through the splintered gaps in the farmhouse walls, illuminating a swirling galaxy of dust and gunpowder residue. The smell was a familiar, ugly cocktail: cordite, wet soil, spilled fuel, and the coppery, unmistakable scent of blood. The frantic, screaming chaos of the skirmish had died hours ago, leaving behind a ringing, oppressive silence broken only by the drip of condensation from a ruptured pipe and the distant, mournful caw of a crow. Two squads—one Colonial green, one Warden grey—had turned this forgotten Linn of Mercy homestead into a slaughterhouse, and now only two heartbeats remained, thumping a frantic rhythm of survival in the oppressive quiet.

Behind a shattered kitchen counter, Legion-Major Bem shifted her weight, biting back a sharp hiss as the movement pulled at the angry, burning graze along her ribs. Her dark green fatigues were smeared with mud and soot, the left sleeve of her field jacket torn and damp with her own blood. Her pinkish hair, matted with sweat and grime, clung to her forehead beneath the steel rim of her helmet. Her brown eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the ravaged interior of the main room. She’d seen the last of her lot go down near the barn. Now, it was just her, her standard-issue rifle cold and heavy in her gloved hands, and the last Warden. She’d caught a glimpse of them as they’d both scrambled for cover—young, human, moving with the panicked urgency of the inexperienced but dangerous. A warden. A baby-eating loyalist to a dead monarch. The enemy.

Across the debris-strewn space, past the overturned table and the sprawled, silent forms in both uniforms, a floorboard creaked near the staircase. Owa’s finger slid to the trigger guard, her breath stilling. They were in here. Somewhere in the shadows of the hall, or perhaps hunkered down in the ruined pantry. They were both wounded, both tired, both trapped in this rickety coffin of a building. The original objectives of the squad were forgotten. Now, the only mission was simple: walk out, and ensure the other did not. The Republic demanded it. Her home demanded it. She adjusted her grip on the rifle, the leather of her gloves creaking softly. Come on, you Caoivish bastard, come on out and fight, she thought, a grim, tired resolve settling over her.