Even a dog can bite (Mecha themed space opera)

[Alasw1]

The mine was a cold, dreary place for anyone, but for Nibel, it was a special kind of hell. The triangular mark on his palm isolated him even among the lowest of the low. It was a bad omen, conjuring fear in some and naked disgust in others.

A buzzer rang. Meal time.

Nibel set his tools down and fell in at the very back of the worker line. His fellow slaves didn't like him touching them. A look of disgust if he was too close; a shove if he made contact.

The cafeteria bustled with noise and the smell of food and coffee. It was divided in two: one side for free workers, the other for slaves. Nibel joined the slave line at the back, avoiding trouble. The mood in the queue was light, people chatting happily with the servers. The positive vibe died the moment Nibel reached the front. The server's face soured. He slopped food onto the tray and waved him away with a grunt.

But today was different. Nibel spotted an empty table. He wouldn't have to eat on the floor.

The relief lasted three bites.

A shadow fell over him. "Move."

He looked up at a group of men. "Please. I just want to eat like a normal person for once."

The biggest one grabbed him by his shirt and threw him to the floor. His tray clattered. Nibel got up, saw their faces, and knew he had no chance. He gathered his food, shoulders slumped, and left.

He walked to his usual spot by the window, ignoring the smirks and mocking stares.

He sat and stared into the star-dusted blackness, eating the tasteless slop. The numbness inside made it easier to swallow. When he finished, he left immediately. More people meant a higher chance of torment.

He went back to his work station—the one place no one else would be during rest periods. He was lost in his thoughts when the buzzer dragged him back to reality.

When the shift ended, a flicker of spirit returned. Slaves worked ten to twelve hours a day, but the rest of the time was theirs. Many used it to work for the mine's private shops, earning payment in goods or coupons, since real money was useless. The most popular payment was spices, to make the slop more tolerable.

Nibel worked an extra job, too. But he didn't care about spices. He worked for books. They were his only escape.

"Hello, Mr. Swaza," he said, a rare happiness in his voice.

"Ah, Nibel. Bad news." The shopkeeper wouldn't meet his eyes. "Management's new rule. We can't trade cultural items to slaves anymore. No more books."

Nibel's chest caved in. He'd known misery, but this was a clean, devastating break.

"But… why?" It was all he could say.

"Who knows? Don't want you educated. Or maybe they just enjoy it. I can still pay you in spices. We have a fresh shipment."

"No. That's okay." The words were hollow. He turned to leave.

"Nibel… the books you have. You need to give them to management. They've probably already cleared out the living quarters."

He walked back to his bunk, his mind empty static. His chest was tight. The walk felt like a march to the gallows. How was he supposed to endure the rest of his life with no escape? No friends, no family, only hatred.

He shut down.

Eat. Work. Sleep. A numb, robotic cycle.

Eat. Work. Sleep.

Eat. Work...

BOOM. An explosion ringed out in the distance..

The shock woke him from his stupor. Alarms blared. People panicked. Gunfire echoed, getting closer. Everyone ran. He followed.

"THIS WAY!" guards yelled. "FREE PERSONS TAKE PRIORITY! ANY SLAVE WHO IMPEDES EVACUATION WILL BE SHOT!"

Nibel watched the free persons rush past, then the other slaves. He was the bottom of the bottom, so he waited until every room was clear before moving.

They reached a secondary hangar. It held only a few small ships.

"FREE PERSONS ONLY! THEN THE STRONGEST SLAVES!"

He watched the boarding process. Some slaves begged or tried to push in. A guard shot one, and the rest fell silent. After the free persons boarded, there was little room left. The only slaves who made it on were the group that had bullied him in the cafeteria.

The gunfire was right outside now. The ships, still holding seats for missing free workers, decided not to wait. They departed.

Seconds later, new soldiers stormed the hangar. They wore black, skintight suits that covered them completely, with glowing lines tracing the fabric and lights for eyes. They looked like demons.

Nibel should have been terrified. He felt nothing. If he died here, it would be a relief.

One of them raised a device to his helmet. His voice boomed through the hangar. "We are from the Volsung Empire. This mine is operating illegally. The use of slaves is illegal under Imperial law. You are liberated. Former slaves, form a line for processing. We will take you to Nasturia for repatriation."

Freed? It had to be a trick. But why? They could just take them. They had the guns.

An Imperial ship landed. The former slaves formed a line, giving names and fingerprints. Out of habit, Nibel waited until the very end, keeping his distance.

This caught a soldier's attention. "You, lad. Why are you hanging back?"

"This is my place, sir. People don't like me near them."

"Why? Did you do something? A criminal perhaps?"

"No, sir. It's because I'm a Nibelung." He showed him his palm.

The soldier made a sharp, surprised sound. "Gunther! Has this mark ever been found on anyone else?"

"No, Sergeant. Not as far as I know. It's an exclusive trait."

The Sergeant turned back to him. "Sit over there. Rest. Eat this." He handed Nibel a bar. "We'll speak after the others are processed."

Confusion warred with the taste of the food. It was incredible, an explosion of flavours he never knew existed. The ecstasy of chocolate mixed with the fear that he was being set apart for execution.

He spaced out, watching the hangar empty. Eventually, the Sergeant returned.

Nibel decided to be direct. He had nothing left to lose. "Are you going to kill me for being a Nibelung?"

The soldier laughed. "No. Look at this." He pulled off his glove and held out his own palm. There, clear as day, was the same triangular mark.

 

[Alasw1]

Nibel and the other slaves were taken to the soldiers' main ship. Its scale was hard to grasp. After being separated, a soldier led him down countless corridors. They were utilitarian, but to Nibel, they felt luxurious. They were spotless, well lit, and made of unblemished metal. A far cry from the mine, where only air tightness mattered, not cleanliness. The air itself was a shock. The sharp, citrus scent of cleaning products was a complete novelty, overwhelming the chemical and sweat stained memories of the mine.

The man leading him seemed important. Everyone they passed saluted. Nibel's knowledge was limited to mine guards and old stories, but the respect was clear.

After half an hour of navigating, they arrived at a busy deck. Nibel's confusion grew. Why bring him here? Was the soldier really a Nibelung? He still doubted everything, but could not find a reason for the deception. Who would willingly bear that mark?

The people on the deck looked at him, puzzled. Before he could speak, the man in the central chair, the captain, he assumed, spoke.

"And this is?"

The soldier who led him nodded. "You're not going to believe this, Captain. Go on, lad. Show him your hand."

Nibel hesitated, then held out his palm.

The captain let out a bemused chuckle. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes, Captain. Our marks don't appear outside our bloodline. It's genuine."

Nibel caught the word. Our?

The captain smiled. "Men. Show him your hands."

In unison, every person on the bridge extended a hand. Each palm bore the same triangular mark. Finally, the captain showed his, too.

Nibel's mind stalled. He had never met another with the mark, and now he was surrounded by them. These were the men who had rescued slaves who despised him for this very mark. A spike of anger cut through his confusion.

"You look like you have questions, lad," the soldier said, noting his expression. "Well explain in due time. For now, sit and relax."

Nibel sat. "What happens to me next?"

"Nothing bad, don't worry. But your situation is particular. Well explain everything when we make port. Just relax until then."

"The Duke will want to know about this," the captain added. "He doesn't involve himself in recruitment, but this situation is unique to say the least. Doubt he would be happy if we didn't tell him."

The Duke? Recruitment? Nibel held his tongue.

"Until then, introductions," the soldier said. "I'm Sergeant Gerhard."

"And I am Captain Hrodwulf."

"They call me Nibel."

"Nibel?" the captain replied, slightly taken aback. "Short for Nibelung?"

"Yes. It's what they have always called me. Mostly derogatory."

"Well, that will not do. You'll need a first name. By law, our tribe must use Nibelung as our last name. If we all went by that, it would be chaos."

The captain's enthusiastic tone was alien to Nibel. His life had been defined by aggression, indifference, or passive cruelty.

"Well, I'm off to my duties," the Sergeant said. "You just sit tight, lad."

As Gerhard left, a crewman spoke up from his terminal. "Captain, we have detected two ships. They match the ones that escaped the mine. Your orders?"

The captain smiled, a sharp, predatory look, and turned to Nibel. "What do you think we should do?"

Nibel's mind filled with faces. The guards who pushed him, the management who took his books, the slaves who would not let him eat in peace. His breathing grew heavy, anger hot on his face. He wanted to say destroy them. But a lifetime of conditioned submission rose like a wall.

"I don't know, sir. It's not my place to say."

The captain laughed. "Well, kid, they made you into an obedient dog, didn't they? No offense. We're all dogs here, of one master or another. You'll fit right in." He turned and gave the order. "Destroy them." Then, he looked back at Nibel. "But remember, even a dog can learn to bite, you can still learn to control your own fate."

Nibel felt a brief, thrill watching the ships explode, a twisted satisfaction of seeing those who had mistreated him finally be punished. Then he remembered Swaza was on one of them. The shopkeeper had been indifferent, but never cruel. He had given him books. A wave of guilt washed that satisfaction away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Rest in peace. And thank you."

---

The ship made port on Nasturia. The planet was habitable, but harsh. It was barren, largely infertile and battered by acidic rains. Technology made it comfortable for inhabitants in their artificial biomes which Nibel caught glimpses of during landing, but he was not destined for comfort. Sergeant Gerhard led him into a military base fully exposed to the bleak environment, past massive black airships, giant mechanised suits, and a constant flow of soldiers.

"Don't worry, lad, you'll not be stuck with me forever," Gerhard said, leading him towards the base.

Then suddenly the ground shuddered. A vast, cool shadow fell over them. Nibel looked up, and his breath caught.

A giant was landing. A bipedal mechanised suit, sleek and terrifying. Its armour was a black so deep it seemed to swallow the light. Two optical sensors shone from its head with a cold, blue glare. It stood over six meters tall.

Nibel stared, utterly captured. His question was a hushed whisper. "What is that?"

"That," Sergeant Gerhard said, a note of pride in his voice, "is a Technecht."

But it was the movement that seized him. It didn't clang or jerk. It moved with the fluid, predatory grace of something alive. The contradiction rooted him to the spot with a pure, uncanny dread. He couldn't look away. The terrible grace was beautiful, and the sheer impossibility of it held him completely.

He didn't get to stare for long. The Sergeant gestured toward the entrance, urging him inside. "Don't worry," Gerhard said. "You'll see plenty of them soon enough."

"I want you to meet Warrant Officer Godefrid. When he heard about you, he instantly volunteered to be your sponsor. He's eccentric. But he's one of the best we have. You can rely on him."

Godefrid was a tall man, impeccably groomed. His hair was slicked back, his face clean shaven, his uniform spotless. His wolf like grey eyes stared into Nibel, as if seeing through to his core. He smiled.

"Oh yes, yes. You'll do just fine."

Seeing Nibel's confusion, the Sergeant interjected. "Ignore it, lad. No one knows what goes on in his head. Just know you can count on him. Have a seat."

They sat around a low table. Godefrid never looked away, his fascinated smile deeply unsettling. Nibel thought of the darker things that happened in the slave quarters. He hoped that he didn't want him that way.

"Well, lads, where do we start?" the Sergeant began. "You're probably wondering who we are."

"The Volsung Empire?"

"The Empire is more like our owner. We're the Nibelung Servant Legion, the NSL. A segregated unit within the Imperial military. We specialise in operating Technecht suits and space warfare."

"What are Technechts?"

"Large mechanized suits for space and terrestrial warfare. Think of a giant humanoid robot you wear. It becomes an extension of you."

The concept was still abstract, but Nibel nodded.

"So why am I here?" he asked.

Godefrid leaned forward, his amusement plain. "I heard you were a slave. Sorry to break it to you, but this mark?" He held up his palm. "It also marks us as property of the Empire."

"But the Empire banned slavery."

"Our ancestors rebelled and lost," Godefrid said. "The Emperor gave them a choice: death or eternal service. They chose service. So the mark makes us property.
But here we can earn freedom. Kill enough enemies, rise high enough, and only the Emperor himself can give you orders.
That's the deal. Will you take it? Will you forge yourself a path through blood?"
Nibel looked to the Sergeant for confirmation.

"Remember, he's eccentric, but he isn't wrong," Gerhard said. "The army gives us freedom we wouldn't have elsewhere. Our unit is segregated, but we have the same rights. We can earn honour, even full freedom, through service."

Nibel looked down at his hands. "I am a coward. I endured abuse for years. I barely fought back. What can someone like me do here?"

Godefrid brought his face closer, his gaze intense. "That is what makes this so perfect. You start from the very bottom. Your ascent will be all the more glorious. No one started lower, and so, no one can climb higher."

The Sergeant cut in, his tone pragmatic. "We are familiar with this conditioning. We are confident we can undo it, if you let us. The choice is yours."

Nibel thought of all the abuse, the powerlessness, the resignation. He had already accepted death. This was a chance to fight for something more.

"So, what will it be?" asked the Sergeant.

"Will you seize your destiny?" Godefrid's voice was a low, fervent whisper.

"Yes," Nibel said. "Ill do it."

Godefrid's face lit up. "SAY IT."

"I'LL DO IT."

"No," Godefrid insisted, his voice bellowing. "SAY YOU WILL SEIZE YOUR DESTINY!"

Nibel took a breath, the words feeling foreign and powerful on his tongue. "I WILL SEIZE MY DESTINY!"

The shout echoed in the sterile room, leaving a ringing silence.

Sergeant Gerhard's initial look was pure confusion, his eyebrows raised. The timid, broken slave was gone, replaced for a single moment by this raw, shouting youth.

Then the moment passed. Nibel's bravado vanished. His shoulders slumped as a hot flush crept up his neck. "I'm sorry for shouting," he stammered, staring at the floor.

Gerhard's expression softened into a warm, rumbling laugh. "Don't worry about it." he said, a genuine grin on his face. "That's the first time you've sounded like a man, lad."

Across the table, Godefrid made no attempt to hide his triumph. His smile was one of pure, unbridled delight. He looked less like an officer and more like a child on Christmas morning.

 

[Alasw1]

Nibel awoke in a small, sterile room. It held a bed, a desk, a closet, a bookshelf, and a private shower. To anyone else, it would have been cramped and impersonal. To Nibel, who had slept on a worn-out mattress in a room with hundreds of other slaves, it was a sanctuary. He had slept so deeply that waking felt like surfacing from a long dive into dark water, and even a cold shower did little to shake the lingering haze of true rest.

A knock startled him. "Hello, can I come in?" It was the Sergeant's familiar voice. "Well, it seems I'm still your guide," Gerhard said, stepping inside. "There's paperwork to formalize your enlistment. This is usually a sponsor's duty, but Godefrid finds formalities boring and claims he has 'important duties.' So, you're stuck with me." He gave a weary smile. "We spoke of seizing your destiny yesterday. A fair warning: be prepared for that destiny to be regularly handed to you by fools with more rank than sense."

With a sigh, he gestured for Nibel to follow.

As they walked, Nibel gathered his courage. "You mentioned Godefrid is my sponsor. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Right, you wouldn't know," Gerhard said. "The system is second nature to us. We're a specialized legion. Our basic training happens when we're teenagers, where we learn the foundations of our roles. When we officially enlist, we're sent straight here. A sponsor, a veteran, takes us on as an apprentice to mentor us into our position. One day, you'll do the same for the next generation."

"But what about those who choose civilian life? Isn't that training a waste?"

"Honestly, few choose it. We're bred for this. The ones who do usually drop out early and sign with a corporation. The corps are happy to get an employee with no rights they can pay a pittance to."

Nibel nodded. "As hated as I was, my owners always made sure I was healthy enough to work."

"Exactly."
"But how will I catch up? I have no training. No education."

"Don't worry about that. We'll get you into shape. The Empire is just happy to have a warm body to throw at its problems. It's our job to make sure you're a body that survives the throwing."

Perhaps he should have been troubled by the dehumanizing language, but a life of slavery had, ironically, prepared him for the blunt realities of military life.

They arrived at a recruitment office, where a secretary acknowledged them with profound indifference. The familiarity of her annoyance was a strange comfort to Nibel; the secretaries at the mine had been the same. They were great equalizers, treating slaves and free workers with identical disdain for interrupting their day.

"How can I help?" she droned.

"We're here for enrolment," Gerhard said.

"Here. Fill these out."

"Not those. We need the Nibelung forms."

The secretary looked up, exhaling slowly. "Aren't your people usually enrolled by the rehabilitation centres you're raised in?"

"This is a unique case. Please find the form."

"Ugh. Fine. Give me a second." She shuffled off to a back room.

"What did she mean by 'rehabilitation centres'?" Nibel asked.

"Remember how we serve the Empire for our tribe's sins?"

"Yes."

"It's not just a metaphor. The official doctrine is that we carry the sin on a spiritual, even genetic level. This mark," Gerhard said, tapping his palm, "is supposedly the physical proof of a tainted soul. That's how they justify our servitude long after the original rebels are dust. The 'rehabilitation' is just learning our place and how to atone for a crime we didn't commit."

Nibel processed this. The Sergeant's tone held a bitter edge, a quiet anger that felt alien. Nibel's own spirit had been conditioned into submission, all resistance beaten out of him. He had never dared to feel anger about his fate, only acceptance. Before he could form a question, the secretary returned.

"Here. Fill these out," she muttered, slapping the forms on the counter.

The Sergeant gave her a thin, perfunctory smile. "Thanks."

He then turned to Nibel. "So, have you thought of a name?"

"I have. I think I'll keep Nibel."

"Nibel Nibelung? That's a mouthful. And wasn't it used as an insult?"

"It was. But it's the only name I've ever known. Changing it would feel like running from who I am. If I'm to seize control of my fate, I think that starts by seizing my own name."

"Wouldn't choosing a new name also be a form of control?"

"It would. But this feels more symbolic. It's a reclamation, not an escape."

The Sergeant nodded, his curiosity piqued but the clock ticking. "Fair enough," he said, ending the conversation there.

"Yoo-hoo!"
The call came from behind as Nibel walked back to his quarters. He turned to see Godefrid striding toward him, a wide grin on his face. "Did you miss me?"

Most would find the man's eccentricities grating, but Nibel felt a genuine flicker of joy. Godefrid was the first person who seemed genuinely interested in him, though he desperately hoped that interest was purely platonic.

"So, did you get all your paperwork done?" Godefrid asked.
"Yes. I don't know when the enrolment will be finalized, though."
"Oh, don't be silly. You were enrolled the moment you were born. The rest is just formality. Come, we have lessons to start."

Taken aback but with no reason to argue, Nibel followed him to a room filled with large, spherical pods.
"What are these?" Nibel asked.
"Training pods. Put these on." Godefrid handed him a black, skintight suit and a pair of wraparound glasses.

After changing, Nibel stood waiting. "What do I do now?"
"Get in."

Once Nibel was inside the pod, Godefrid's voice came through a speaker. "A quick rundown. The suit is a techsuit. It uses electromagnetic fields to control a Technecht. Simple, really. You move, it moves."
"And the glasses?"
"They let you see. Any other questions?"


Before Nibel could answer, the pod hummed to life. He was elevated, floating half a meter in the air. Metallic rings emerged from the walls, encircling his limbs without touching them, mirroring his every motion.
"You'll learn quicker this way," Godefrid laughed.

The glasses flickered on. One moment he was in a pod; the next, he was standing in the middle of a half-destroyed town. He looked down at his hands, massive, metallic claws. He moved an arm, and the Technecht's arm moved in perfect sync. The connection was so seamless it felt like an extension of his own body. He could even feel a simulated wind against the metal hull, or was it just a perfect, unnerving illusion?

A sudden warning scream filled his ears. A red exclamation mark flashed before his eyes. High-speed jets screamed past, dropping bombs that shook the ground. Nibel threw the mech to the ground, scrambling behind the ruins of a building. A furious artillery barrage began to pound the town into dust.

"You've got a gun! On your hip!" Godefrid's voice was calm amidst the chaos.

Nibel fumbled, grabbing the massive weapon. He fired wildly in the general direction of the artillery. Bullets whizzed past his head, from behind. He spun around to see fellow Technecht units, but a jet slammed into one, obliterating it in a fireball.

"KEEP SHOOTING!" Godefrid shouted.

Terrified, Nibel kept firing. Then he saw them: tanks, rolling into the town. His sole remaining comrade fired down at them before exploding into a shower of shrapnel under a concentrated shelling.

Nibel screamed. He destroyed a few tanks, but then a searing impact threw his suit to the ground. He looked down and saw his mech's legs sheared off. He looked up into the cold, glowing eyes of an enemy Technecht, its weapon still smoking.

The simulation powered down.

Nibel gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What the hell was that?" The realism was absolute; it felt like he had truly died.

Godefrid laughed. "That's war, baby. How did it feel?"
"Terrifying! How am I supposed to survive that?" Nibel's voice was thick with frustration and defeat.
"To be perfectly honest, that was a nightmare scenario. Only the best of the best can survive it. Artillery, suicide jets, limitless tanks, and enemy Technechts in a terrestrial setting? It's a guaranteed loss. I just enjoy seeing new recruits panic. It's a guilty pleasure. That said… you held the line. Most people just run. You have some fight in you. It's interesting."
"Can we just do something normal, please? I'd like to build a tolerance before experiencing hell again."

Godefrid chuckled. "Alright, alright. Basic lessons it is."

The next simulation placed him in the void of space. Godefrid patiently guided him through the suit's functions: omnidirectional flight, the antimatter gun that could extend from a sidearm to a rifle, and the energy sword that drew from the same hyper-dense cartridges. He learned about the shield, capable of stopping most projectiles but vulnerable to a single hit from the powerful energy weapons.

After the lesson, Godefrid invited him to lunch.

He watched, amazed, as Nibel devoured the food. "Did they not feed you?"
"It's not that," Nibel said, almost choking on mashed potatoes. "On the mine, it was flavorless slop designed to keep us working. These new tastes… I can't pace myself."

Godefrid smiled, looking at him like he was a rescued animal. "Enjoy it, then."

"Can I ask you something?" Nibel said.
"Sure."
"Why do people hate us so much?" The vague answers about ancestral sins had never sat right with him. The sheer universality of the disgust seemed illogical.

"We're the cursed people. The traitors."
"I know, but why does everyone still care? No one alive experienced those crimes."

Godefrid's gaze held a deep pity. "Hatred is a seed inside everyone. Give people a target, and they'll happily water it. It's an outlet that makes them more docile elsewhere."

It made a bleak kind of sense, but it still felt incomplete. "But you're right, there's more to it," Godefrid added. "Why do you think the Empire needs a slave army?"

Nibel thought. "Because we're cheap? Disposable?"
"That's cute. You don't need this complex system for cheap and disposable. The reason is more sinister."
"So, what is it?"

Godefrid smiled again, but this time, Nibel could see a profound sorrow in his grey eyes. "I could tell you, but you'll find out soon enough. Trust me, this is better for your growth. For your way of thinking."
"My way of thinking?"
"It's not enough to be told an answer. To truly understand, you must recondition your mind to reach the conclusion yourself. Until then, the truth is just words." Godefrid leaned forward. "But remember that question: Why does the Empire need an army of slaves?"

 

[Alasw1]

Nibel woke up in his room once again, he washed his face and caught his reflection in the mirror. He paused, really looking at himself. He wasn't just a ghost anymore. A healthy colour was returning to his pale skin. The hollows in his cheeks were softening, and his blue eyes were finally clear of the old exhaustion. He ran a hand through his hair, his actual hair, which was growing in brown and unruly after a lifetime of forced shaves in the mines. He'd need a cut soon. His fingers brushed against stubble on his jaw. A shave, too. He surprised himself, realising he was actually thinking about how he would style his appearance, a thought that had never crossed his mind before.
But he didn't have time for that now. He could finally read. Since he'd missed out on a proper education, no rehabilitation home for him, he had to teach himself. Godefrid was supposed to instruct him, but found the idea boring and had just handed him the books instead. That suited Nibel; he could learn at his own pace.

The first book was a history and geography text. He learned their star system was controlled by three main powers. First, the Volsung Empire, the one he now belonged to. Second, the Union of Planetary Republics, or UOPR, which had nothing to do with unions or republics. It was a dictatorship under a strongman named Kamil Volkhan. Their method for keeping the "union" together was simple: they nuked rebellious planets into extinction, a threat they had only needed to use once.

The final power was the Sovereign Accord of Independent Nations, or SAIN. It began as a defense pact between independent worlds fearing annexation by the Empire or the UOPR, but it had grown into a nation of its own. The leader of its mutual defense organisation became the alliance's de facto leader. Unlike the Emperor, this leader was elected by the representatives of each member nation, though not all of them were democracies.

A fourth, smaller power existed: a single planet named Tellus. It was the most coveted world in the system, the only Terra-tier planet with Earth-like fertility, climate, and biomes. Its independence was guaranteed by an agreement between the three great powers; an invasion by one would be met by the other two. In a war like that, there would be nothing left to conquer.

Because of its neutral status, Tellus hosted the interstellar capitals of each great power. While each had a military headquarters on a home planet, they maintained diplomatic hubs on Tellus to facilitate negotiations with each other and their own territories.

The system's history was complex, too much to learn quickly. The settlers originally came from Earth, an alliance of nations that each sent a ship to colonise the nearest habitable planet. A miscalculation, or a wormhole, hurled them to this unknown star system instead. Faced with the unknown, they separated, each ship colonising a different planet. This was the event that created the empires; the inhabitants of each power were largely descended from the original ship that settled their world. New cultures and religions had formed under the pressure of their new environments and isolation from Earth, though they still carried echoes of their founding beliefs.

The new information fascinated him, but he had to close the books. Next was martial arts training.


Unlike other instruction, this was a group activity. It was a constant discipline, Godefrid had explained, one that kept them fit and directly impacted their control over the Technechts. It could also save their lives in hand-to-hand combat.

The teacher started them with basic exercises: running, stretching, push-ups. Then came the punches and kicks, repeated until the motions felt burned into muscle memory. After demonstrating a few grappling holds, it was time for sparring.

To Nibel's surprise, he was chosen first. Why put a complete amateur in the ring? Under the weight of everyone's stares, he couldn't back out. His opponent was a towering man who seemed three times his size. Nibel looked at him, his own frame still underweight from the mines. He had no technique, no fighting spirit.

"Begin," the teacher said.

Nibel didn't even have time to react. A punch slammed into his face, sending him to the mat. He tried to push himself up, but a swift leg sweep put him down again. Then the man was on top of him, fists pounding into his head and shoulders. Nibel could only curl up, arms shielding his face.

"Stop." said the teacher.

The weight lifted. His opponent returned to his starting position as if nothing had happened.

"Back in position," the teacher said, gesturing at Nibel.

"BEGIN!"

This time, his opponent charged with an elbow strike. Nibel barely got his arms up in time to block it. Why am I fighting him? Our skills aren't matched. He caught a quick glance at the watching soldiers. Two were smirking, friends of his opponent, probably. The rest just stared, their faces blank. Was this normal? Their bored expressions were a spark on tinder.

Rage boiled up in him. Is this why I signed up? To be abused again?

His anger crested. He threw a wild punch with all his strength. It was misplaced, slamming into the top of the man's skull. Pain shot through Nibel's hand, but it made his opponent flinch. Seizing the moment on pure animal instinct, Nibel lunged forward and bit down on the man's arm.

Blood filled his mouth. He bit harder.

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME!" the man shouted, hammering blows into Nibel's side, but he wouldn't let go.

"STOP!" the teacher yelled again. The class rushed in, pulling at them, and eventually pried them apart. A deep, ugly wound marked the man's arm.

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO?" his opponent screamed.

Nibel just stared back, his face smeared with blood, his mind a daze. What is wrong with me?

He faintly heard the teacher dismiss the class. Then someone took him by the arm, and he instinctively followed.

Snap. "Hey." Snap. "You there?"

"Huh? Sorry, who are you?" Nibel blinked, the world coming back into focus.

The young man was laughing, highly amused. "That was absolutely insane. Why did you do that? Ah, it doesn't matter. That asshole had it coming. He always goes extra hard on new guys. Put a few in the hospital. So, what's your name? How come I've never seen you before?" He kept rambling, a torrent of words, It was a stark contrast to what he had been accustomed to until then.

"I messed up, didn't I?" The realisation hit Nibel like a physical blow. Even in a fight, he must have crossed a line. Had he just ruined his new life?

The young man seemed to think for a second. "Naaah. I was about to mess with you, but that'd be cruel. The teacher asked the administration to relax the rules for his classes. Partly to overlook training mishaps, partly because he's a masochist who enjoys the hazing. Did you think it was a coincidence he put you against the biggest guy here before you even knew how to block? I mean come on"

Upon hearing he was safe every muscle in Nibel's body relaxed at once. He felt utterly exhausted, and now acutely aware of the overwhelming iron taste in his mouth. "Ugh." He gagged. "Is there anywhere I can wash up?"

"Yeah, 'course. Bathroom's nearby. I'll lead you."

Nibel scrubbed the blood from his face and rinsed his mouth until the taste of iron was gone. "Who are you?" he finally asked. "And… thanks."

"No worries. Name's Aelfraed. Another Nibelung, like you." The young man grinned. "Just… less feral."

"I'm not... that's not who I am." Nibel leaned against the sink, his hand throbbing. "I don't know what happened."

Aelfraed's laugh was quick and sharp. "What happened is you gave Karl a new scar and a story he'll be too embarrassed to tell. Hell of a first day."

Suddenly, a familiar voice sang out from the doorway. "Yoo-hoo! Mad Dog Nibel!"

Godefrid leaned against the doorframe, beaming.

"Well, hello there. And who might you be?"

"Sir. Aelfraed. New recruit." A tone of respect entered his voice. Nibel remembered the Sergeant saying Godefrid's high rank was earned, a fact his behavior often made easy to forget.

"Oho! And what's this? Taken a shine to my Nibel, have we?"

"Just showing the new blood where to clean up, sir. After he, uh, made a mess."

Godefrid's eyes flicked to Nibel's blood-splattered shirt. "So I saw. Nibel, a word. Biting is… inelegant. As your sponsor, I must officially discourage it."

"I'm sorry, sir," Nibel said, the words automatic. "I just… I lost control."

"Don't worry about it. Honestly, I'm ecstatic to see that fire in you at last. I want more of that fight. Just... channel it. Biting is ugly, animalistic. Find a more beautiful outlet for that rage, okay?" Godefrid winked.

Nibel just nodded, exhausted. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. I have high hopes for you."

Everything Godefrid said felt like part of a larger, private context only he understood. Nibel knew by now that questioning him would only yield another vague answer. "Okay, sir. I will."

The days passed, settling into a new rhythm. His lessons proceeded normally. Godefrid was a sharp teacher, and Nibel's skills as a pilot grew rapidly. Aelfraed had taken a liking to him, so now he had two eccentrics to sit with at meals. After the sparring incident, people generally left him alone in martial arts, making the sessions calmer. His evenings were for reading, piecing together the world around him.

He had fallen into a routine. It gave him a sense of comfort he had never known. But like all things, it ended. With the arrival of the Duke, it was time for the formal welcoming ceremony.


Nibel stood in a vast hall, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with the other recruits. Before them, a stage was framed by three massive emblems: the Imperial sigil, the stark symbol of the Military, and the heraldry of the Dukedom of Reginald. A stern officer waited to the left of the stage.

"ATTENTION!"

The command cracked through the air. Nibel's body snapped rigid, his spine straightening in unison with the hundred others around him.

"PRESENTING HIS GRACE, DUKE REGINALD THE SECOND!"

A man strode onto the stage. Even from a distance, his presence was imposing. He was dressed in a formal military uniform, all sharp lines and polished medals, but it was his face that held Nibel, a piercing, uncompromising stare that seemed to sweep over them all.

"SALUTE!"

As one, the crowd thumped their right fists over their hearts, a single, percussive beat echoing through the hall.

"AT EASE."

A collective shift ran through the ranks.

The Duke's voice was calm, yet it carried to the very back of the room. "When our ancestors came to this galaxy, they were naive. They extended a hand in good faith to their fellow colonists. The others saw it as weakness. And they were right." He paused, letting the silence weigh on them. "Our ancestors clung to democracy. They believed dialogue and voting would settle the galaxy. The other ships agreed, but only as lip service. While we talked, they simply took."

"That was until our founder, Emperor Volsung the First, experienced his first vision. He saw the old gods slaughtered by the god Alvaldr for their ineptitude. Alvaldr started as a lesser god, worshipped by few, but he grew tired of their complacency. He deemed them unfit to rule. So he slaughtered them and made himself the sole ruler of the heavens."

"So it was with Emperor Volsung. He was a lesser citizen who saw the failure of the false god of democracy. He knew he must follow Alvaldr's path. He, too, would slay the corrupt and establish himself as ruler above all, with only Alvaldr above him. And so he did. He carved out the empire we call home."

His gaze seemed to sharpen, focusing on the Nibelung recruits. "But time corrupts. That corruption festered in your ancestors. You forgot what the Emperor had given you. You rebelled against him, and in doing so, you rebelled against God. The mark on your right hand is the proof of that betrayal."

"Yet the Empire is generous. It gives you a second chance. A chance to redeem yourselves, to cleanse your spiritual sins. Prophecy foretells that when your souls are finally clean of this original sin, the marks will disappear. So rejoice. Rejoice at this chance to cleanse your souls through service to the Empire. Rejoice that through war, Alvaldr has given you the choice to control your fate and return to our ranks."

He leaned forward, his voice rising from a solemn tone to a ringing, fervent declaration. "And most of all, rejoice that you do this in His image! So while you are cursed, you are also the holiest unit in the entire Imperial military! Your service to the Empire and to God starts here! GO FORTH, MY SACRED SOLDIERS. YOUR WAR FOR REDEMPTION BEGINS NOW!"

He raised a fist over his heart. The entire hall of recruits mirrored the gesture in a single, thunderous motion, their voices crashing together:
"FOR VOLSUNG, FOR ALVALDR!"

 

[Alasw1]

Dim orange lights lit the enclosed launch bay. Each Technecht stood sealed in its own pressurized cell, a metal giant in a metal closet. Nibel looked down the line. A narrow walkway of metal gridwork ran between the compartments, the only path in the cramped space. The massive outer hull plates were still sealed, hiding the void beyond.


"Warning: commencing depressurisation in ten minutes," a worker announced over the speakers.


"Hey, Nibel." Aelfraed's voice came through the comms. "You ready for your first mission?"


"It's hard to say before the action starts," Nibel replied. "But I can say I'm prepared." Months of training had built a shell of confidence. But the old hesitation, carved into him by a lifetime of servitude, was still there, deep down.


"I'm sure you are, lad. I checked your sims. A+ student. A miracle, given your teacher."


Godefrid's channel lit up. "I heard that, Sergeant," he said, sounding annoyed.


"You were meant to. I'd only be worried if you cared enough about your rank to do anything about it. But we both know that's too much bother."


Godefrid exhaled, a sound of mock defeat. "Well, you got me there."


"By the way, Nibel," the Sergeant added, "I wanted to ask you about something. Last time we spoke, we didn't have time."


"About what?"


"Your name. Why did you choose 'Nibel'? Didn't you want to start over?"


"I thought about a new name. But it would be less impactful than keeping my own."


"How so?"


"A new name would be like starting fresh. I don't want to leave my past behind. I want to change what the name means. I want to turn it from something that inspires disgust into something that inspires respect. I started with it, and I'll end with it."


"Well, lad, that's quite respectable. Putting it that way, I can't argue."


Godefrid chimed in with a low moan. "Ohhh, Nibel. Every time I think you can't make me happier, you prove me wrong. It's art. Your life is a tragedy, yet in sadness there is hope. Even with your name, you reflect that. Come, Nibel. Let us together build your legend."


"So, anyway," the Sergeant interrupted, "let's run the pre-launch checks."


"Guys, I'm here too, you know?" said Aelfraed. "I'm kinda nervous. This is my first time in actual space. Will it feel different from the sims? What about the recoil in zero-g? And..."


"Yes, yes, you're a big boy too, Aelfraed," Godefrid cut in, his voice flat. "You'll do great. Lovely. Amazing."


"I'm sure it will be fine," Nibel said. He was worried, too. "Sergeant, why is our first time piloting in space a combat mission?"


"Same reason you learn to swim by being thrown in the water. It's designed to break you in."


"Well, I don't know, sir. I never learned to swim."


Aelfraed laughed. "He can pilot a literal God of war but he can't swim. Quite the contrast."


"He does have a point, Nibel. We'll have to fix that," said the Sergeant.


"Uh-huh, that simply will not do," Godefrid added. "Your legend will be incomplete."


Nibel sighed. "Okay, okay. I'll find a pool when we're back. Besides, isn't it the military's fault for not training me?"


"I suppose you're right," the Sergeant conceded. "Swimming is taught at the homes. We overlooked that."


"Ooh, let's go to the public pool! Maybe we'll meet some women there," Aelfraed said.


"Leisure is on your own time," the Sergeant replied, his tone a formal reminder.


"Right. Yes, sir. My apologies."


Depressurisation commencing now. Starting launch in 10, 9, 8...


"Okay, get ready. On my mark, follow my vector," the Sergeant said, all business.


...2, 1, 0. Commencing launch.


With a deafening roar, the outer hull plates slid away. Nibel was slammed back into his harness as his Technecht was catapulted into the void. The Sergeant's unit shot forward, and the others fell in behind.


"Asteroid belt in three minutes. Prepare for immediate contact. Watch for gun nests dug into the rock."


"Roger," the group replied.


A laser shot whizzed past. Then Godefrid's Technecht surged ahead of the formation.


"SHIELD WALL!" the Sergeant yelled.


Nibel fell into place, his shield interlocking with Aelfraed's and the others. They advanced as one, a moving fortress, their combined fire systematically silencing enemy positions as they pushed toward the heart of the pirate settlement.


"Godefrid, anti-ship canons are yours," the Sergeant called.


"On it." Godefrid became a blur, his energy sword dismantling the massive turrets with surgical strikes. The moment the last one fell, the Volsung gunship moved in, its main cannons turning the central base into expanding debris.


"Disperse!" Sergeant Gerhard ordered. "They're pirates. Marked for death. No prisoners."


The squad broke apart, hunting through the asteroid cluster.


"Follow me." Godefrid's order was flat, devoid of its usual theatricality.


Nibel obeyed, trailing as Godefrid moved with a possessed, terrifying grace. He destroyed gunships and gun nests until they confronted a group of four enemy Technechts. Godefrid dispatched three in seconds, then opened a channel to the last.


"You. Do you want to live?" Godefrid asked.


"What the hell are you?" the enemy pilot stammered.


Godefrid aimed his rifle at the cockpit. "Last time. Do you want to live?"


"Y-yes."


"Nibel. Fight him. If you lose, he goes free."


"Him?" Nibel asked, stunned.


"That is an order."


"Really? You'll let me go if I fight this amateur?" the pirate sneered. "I saw how he moves. He ain't all that."


The condescension was a spark on tinder. That was the voice of the mines, and he refused to hear it anymore.


"Yes, sir. I'll do it."


He drew his sword. The enemy opened fire immediately. Nibel raised his shield, closing the distance through the hail of rounds. The enemy swung; Nibel parried. Before he could recover, the enemy Technecht slammed its head into his. The impact rattled him, a concussive shock through the frame. The pirate slashed again, and Nibel barely got his shield up in time.


"Remember, Nibel," Godefrid's voice was calm in his ear. "No rules in a fight to the death. He will use anything."


The words snapped him out of the daze. He kicked out, shoving the enemy back, then charged, returning the headbutt. He went for his sidearm, but the enemy was faster, its sword slicing through his Technecht's wrist. The hand, still clutching the gun, spun away into the void.


This is bad. The thought was cold and clear.


Adrenaline flooded him. He lunged, wrapping his Technecht's remaining arm around the enemy, pulling them into a brutal clinch. He headbutted the cockpit again and again, until the enemy's sword slipped away. The fight devolved into an ugly, close-quarters struggle. In the chaos, Nibel's functioning hand found the enemy's own sidearm, still holstered and forgotten.


He wrenched it free, pressed the barrel against the enemy's abdomen, and fired.


The struggling stopped.


Nibel stared at the dead Technecht, a dark smear of blood now clouding the hole in its torso. He felt a strange, hollow empathy for the man who had tried to kill him.


"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You fought well. Rest in peace."


"You did well," Godefrid said, his tone serious but with a note of respect. "You fought to the end. And you ended it with honour."


"Was that necessary?"


"Unfortunately, yes. You'll understand why, eventually."


Nibel said nothing. He maintained the silence all the way back.


Later, in the cafeteria, Captain Hrodwulf addressed the troops.


Well, you sorry lot somehow managed not to die. Even with pirates who've been doing this longer than most of you have been alive. So be proud. The soldiers raised their cups with a unified "Ayy!"

"Of course, half of you were just hiding behind the walking natural disaster we call Stormsverd, so let's not get too proud. The crowd laughed. "And I'd especially like to congratulate the new recruits. You handled the pressure well." Aelfraed raised his glass with a bright smile.

"Finally, I'd like to single out Nibel, who won his first duel today."


The room went quiet. Aelfraed looked at him, his face a mix of surprise and shock.


"Is that odd?" Nibel asked, uneasy under the stares.


"Yes," Aelfraed whispered. "Only veterans get into duels. Those pirates were good. For a rookie to win is unheard of."


Before Nibel could process this, the room erupted. Two soldiers hoisted him onto their shoulders, carrying him through the cheering crowd. When they set him down, the Captain approached.


"Congratulations, Nibel. Seems you're learning to bite" he said with a wink.


Then Godefrid was there, his familiar smile back in place. "Now your name has the respect you wanted. You're not a legend yet. But this is where it begins."

 

[Alasw1]

Revised chapters 1&2 to remove the fluff and make them more fluid, matching later chapters.

 

[Alasw1]

"No, move your hands and feet together. Not like that. Look." The Sergeant demonstrated the motions. Nibel flailed in the water, sinking instantly. Aelfraed hauled him back to the pool's edge.


The Sergeant sighed. "Of everything we've taught you, I never thought swimming would be the hardest. We can't even get you to float."


Nibel looked down at the water, defeated. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. I've never been submerged before. It feels unnatural."


"You'd never been in space, either," Aelfraed chimed in. "And look at your first mission."


"I suppose every legend has his weakness," Godefrid added.


"Let's just get back to it," Nibel said, pushing off from the edge.


A man appeared at the pool entrance. "Sir Godefrid? A word, if you may?"


Godefrid glanced at Nibel. "I suppose. Nothing of note seems imminent. What is it?" His voice was bored.


"I've been sent by Duke Reginald the Second. Your legendary prowess has reached him. He wishes to congratulate you on your recent—"


"Yes, very good, thank you. Is there a specific reason for your visit?" Godefrid's eyes drifted back to the pool.


The man looked stumped. "Are you not pleased with the Duke's praise?"


"Oh, of course. I am immensely happy that someone so esteemed would congratulate a lowly soldier like myself. Forgive my impatience. I assumed the praise was the preamble. What is the purpose?"


Unfazed, the man continued. "The Duke invites you to the capital on Nasturia. He wishes to see your skill in person. If he likes what he sees, he wants you to command one of his elite units."


Godefrid considered it. He cared little for the Duke, his interest consumed almost entirely by Nibel's progress. But he saw an opportunity.


"Very well," he replied. "I'll do it. On one condition: I choose the members of my unit."


"I don't see why not, provided they are competent."


"Don't worry about that. You see that boy drowning in the pool?"


"Yes?"


"He's earned quite a reputation. He won his first duel against a veteran. They're already calling him 'Vígmadr'.(Man of war)"


"Is that so? He doesn't look it."


"You've caught us at a bad moment. I assure you, his battle prowess is unmatched among the recruits."


"Very well. I will inform the Duke. We will contact you with the details for the journey."


"Of course. Until then." Godefrid gave a dismissive wave and returned to the group. He found Nibel managing a clumsy dog paddle. He sighed. "It's a start, I suppose."


The capital was a short flight away, but Sergeant Gerhard preferred to drive. He convinced the group to join him. Godefrid had brought Gerhard and Aelfraed, the latter mainly because he was nearby when the invitation was given. Godefrid had no strong feelings about the rest of the unit; the Duke could fill the spots for all he cared.


Nibel stared out the window at the towering glass structures. "What are those?"
"Vertical farms," the Sergeant replied. "The soil here is barren. Nothing grows well, so everything is raised indoors. Even the cattle."


Aelfraed leaned forward. "Speaking of cattle, there's a rodeo show happening right now that…"



"We don't have time for shows," Gerhard cut him off.



"Can we do one thing I want to do? You always shoot me down."



"That's happened twice, and it's because you try to turn duty into a vacation. Ask us on our own time, and we'll consider it. Understood?"



"Fine," Aelfraed muttered.


They drove into the capital, Raginholm. The scenery shifted instantly. Though there was no visible dome, the city was clearly enclosed. The brown, overcast Nasturian sky was replaced by a simulated blue one. The road was now lined with vineyards and orchards.



"Sergeant?" Nibel asked. "I thought all food came from the vertical farms."


"The staple goods do. These are largely for show. Tourists pay a premium for the 'earth-like' experience. The produce is used for alcohol. It's second in price only to imports from Tellus."


"Is it really that much better?"


"It's good, but the price is because of the artisan branding. Without that, it wouldn't taste much different from the food grown wasteland's vertical farms."


"I'd like to visit one someday."
Godefrid turned to him. "You'll have to work for it."
"Is it that expensive?"


"It's not the price," the Sergeant said. "They don't allow our kind. Bad for their image."


"Ah. Right." The reminder was a cold splash. Life on the base had almost let him forget.






The city centre was beautiful, with stone buildings, planned layouts, and trees lining the streets. It felt like a different world. That world ended as they reached the eastern outskirts. The buildings grew basic and dilapidated, the only green being the tint in old vomit stains. They stopped at a hotel called "The Imperial," a name far grander than the plain, though clean, building.


"Why are we staying in the slums?" Aelfraed complained. "Aren't we guests of the Duke?"


"We're still Nibelung," Gerhard said. "The better districts won't have us. The palace is off-limits. This is pushing our luck as it is. The rooms are fine. Or we can camp."


"This is fine," Aelfraed said quickly.


After dropping their bags, they met in the lobby.


"We have free time now," Aelfraed announced, grinning. "So I get to choose, right?"


"You can make a suggestion," Gerhard corrected.


"Let's get drinks!"
"I don't think that's a good idea," the Sergeant said, a note of nerves in his voice. "We need to be sharp for tomorrow."


"You're refusing again? Will you ever accept any of my suggestions?"


"He has a point," Godefrid sighed. "Indulge him once, for peace. Let's go."


Gerhard relented. "Alright. But everyone paces themselves."


The pub was as dingy as the neighborhood, but inside it was cozy, with wooden furniture, stone walls, and a crackling fireplace.

"Four beers," Aelfraed told the barman.

"So, Nibel," Gerhard asked. "How are you adapting?"

"It's amazing. My own room, real food, daily showers. No one singles me out for being Nibelung anymore." As he said "Nibelung," a nearby table shot them dirty looks.

"Was it really that bad before?" Aelfraed asked.

"Worse. What was it like for you?"

"Not even close. The homes were isolated. We had everything we needed. I'm grateful to the Duke."

"He was protecting his investment," Godefrid laughed. "No need for gratitude."

"I remember those mines," the Sergeant said, taking a long drink. "Filthy places. You were in a terrible state when we found you. Looked like a beaten animal." His tone grew heavier as he drained his mug.

"How you have suffered," Godefrid added. "But in suffering there is salvation. And every day it further approaches."

The mood turned heavy. "So, what did you do all day?" Aelfraed asked quickly. "Any friends?"

"I worked. I read. No one wanted to be near a Nibelung. I was hit, shoved, spat on. One man spoke to me normally. He wasn't nice, but his indifference felt like warmth. He owned the shop where I worked."

"Did he make it?" the Sergeant asked, his words beginning to slur.

"Oh my," Godefrid observed. "The Sergeant is not a drinking man."

"No. Captain Hrodwulf destroyed his ship."

"S'protocol, lad," Gerhard slurred, his head lolling slightly. "No prisheners. Nowhere to put 'em. Jus'... pfft." He made a vague exploding gesture with his hands.

"We should probably stop," Aelfraed said nervously.

"You wan'ed this, recruit," the Sergeant growled, his voice thick and unsteady. "We stop when I shay we stop."

"Someone is abusing his rank," Godefrid mused, amused.

"Fucking Nibelung," came a mutter from the next table. "Dirtying up the place."

Gerhard shot to his feet, unsteady. "The FUCK did you shay?" The table went quiet. "We shed blood f'this empire! We die for it! Our whole life is fightin' battles you're too cowardly to fight! You should be... be thankin' us every night you sleep safe!"

Their silence continued, shocked by the retaliation.

"You see that? Fuckin' cowards! They hide behind the law! WELL THE LAW CAN'T UN-KILL YOU, YOU SHITS!"

"It seems the Sergeant is a mean drunk," Godefrid said calmly. "Let's take him back."

They hauled Gerhard out as he hurled insults at the stunned patrons.

"That was a bad idea. I'm sorry, guys," Aelfraed said.

"YOU!" the Sergeant yelled, jabbing a finger at Aelfraed. "I shaid no! But you had to inshisht! An' you, Godefrid!" He poked Godefrid in the chest.

Godefrid seemed unbothered, a faint smile on his lips. Then the Sergeant shouted, "WHORES!"
Nibel looked left and saw a brothel.

"Lesh get shome whoresh!"

"You know, that's the first suggestion of yours I've liked, Sergeant," Aelfraed said.

"Hmm. It has been a while," Godefrid added.

Nibel was stunned. "You too, Godefrid?"

"I am a man. I have urges. With marriage off the table and dating nearly impossible, this is the only outlet. A man with pent-up frustration is a pitiful sight. So yes, I indulge from time to time"

Nibel wasn't surprised Godefrid had urges, but the brothel didn't seem to cater to his presumed preferences. Before he could ask, the Sergeant bellowed, "LESH GET SUM FAKKIN' WHORES, DEN!"

Nibel decided it was best not to ask.

"I fear if we bring him in there, he will break something, or at least terrify the staff," Godefrid said. "Back to the hotel."

With a disappointed sigh from Aelfraed, they wrestled the drunken Sergeant down the street and into the hotel.

 

[Alasw1]

Nibel and Aelfraed waited in the lobby. Sergeant Gerhard came down, massaging his temples.

"Ugh. Morning."

"You look rough, Sergeant," Aelfraed said.

"My head is killing me. What happened last night?"

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead. It seems you were a very bad boy last night," Godefrid replied, appearing behind them with a chuckle.

"I remember the pub. Did I really yell at those people?"

"We had to pull you away," Nibel confirmed.

"I'm sorry. If there's trouble, I'll take the blame. I can't handle my drink. And I love it too much to pace myself."

"I shouldn't worry," Godefrid said. "I sincerely doubt the Duke will trouble himself over a drunken squabble with slum-dwellers. Now, we must make haste. It would not do to keep our audience waiting. And I," he added, plucking the keys from Gerhard's hand, "will be driving."

"Right." Gerhard drained his coffee in one go and followed them to the car.

As the city slid past the window, Nibel thought about the Sergeant's outburst. Was it just the alcohol? It felt like something deeper, something usually locked tight that the drink had broken open.

"Sergeant?"

"Yes, Nibel?" Gerhard replied, still rubbing his temples.

"Do you hate the citizens?"

The Sergeant let out a long breath. "I don't hate them. Many of us do. But what I feel isn't hate."

"Oh? Do enlighten us," Godefrid chimed in, his curiosity clearly piqued.

"Frustration. We fight and die for these people, and they take it for granted. No recognition. They don't even see us as human. Just parts of a machine that exists to die for them."

"And that isn't a splendid reason for hatred?" Godefrid's tone was light and playful.

"Probably. But if I hated them, I'd want them dead or punished. I just want our people to have the respect we've earned. Haven't we earned it?"

"And yet the mark remains," Godefrid countered. "Does its persistence not suggest we have not?"

Gerhard was silent for a moment. "The mark is proof we haven't redeemed our people. But emotionally… it still feels unfair. That's why I usually avoid drinking. And keep my thoughts to myself."

Godefrid smiled. "Then let it be so."

The car fell quiet. Nibel had been so focused on his own chance that he'd never stopped to consider if any of this was fair. Unfairness was the baseline of his old life; any opportunity felt like a gift. He glanced at Aelfraed, who also seemed lost in thought, but before he could speak, Godefrid announced their arrival.

"We have arrived. Let the performance begin."



They had arrived at a large but unremarkable building. Its only notable feature was that all the windows were blacked out. "Where are we?" Nibel asked.

"This is the Nasturian Royal Office of Information," Godefrid replied. "The NROI. Military intelligence."

"I thought we were meeting the Duke?" Aelfraed said.

"Surely you don't expect the Duke to meet with just anyone," a man said, approaching them. "He is a very busy man. Please follow me."

He led them deep into the building's interior. While imposing from the outside, it was even larger underground, a hidden city of workers buried in data-screens and frantic activity.

"Bureaucracy is so ugly," Godefrid told Nibel, noticing his stare. "I don't know how they live like this."

"No kidding," Aelfraed added. "Imagine spending ten hours a day down here. So boring."

"This way, please." The employee led them into an office. "Please meet General Magnus Leif Kuonrat." He then left, closing the door.

The soldiers and the general exchanged salutes.

"Do you accept the mission?" the General asked.

"Quite presumptuous to ask before telling us what it is," Godefrid replied. Aelfraed looked on in horror at his tone.

"The details are confidential. Accept first, then we talk. If you refuse, the door is behind you."

"Fine, fine. We accept. Right, comrades?" Godefrid looked at the others. They agreed in unison.

"Recite your oaths," the General ordered.

"I, Nibelung, scion of traitors, do swear my unwavering loyalty to His Grace, Duke Reginald the Second, to His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Ingmar the Third, and to the eternal Volsung Empire. There is one God, Alvaldr, and my mark is the proof of my submission to His divine will. Through service, I seek redemption. Through obedience, I embrace my fate. May my life be a testament to this oath." The group spoke as one.

"Good. Now sit." The General gestured to the empty chairs. "Your mission is to travel to the planet Buranvek and assassinate Commander Lermantov."

"Commander Lermantov?" the Sergeant asked, confused. "Why are we assassinating a UOPR war hero?"

"That is our concern. You will travel by civilian spacecraft under the guise of tourism. The assassination will take place at his mansion."

"Oh, is that all?" Godefrid said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "We just walk into a war hero's mansion and kill him. I'm sure his security will be negligible."

"Your concern is noted. When you arrive, you will rendezvous at this address." The General handed Godefrid a slip of paper. "Your contact will provide the details."

"Is there anything else we should know?" the Sergeant asked.

"No. That is all. Proceed to the medical bay to have your marks concealed. Remove any Nibelung insignia."

"Oh, interesting," Godefrid smirked. "Are there any other laws we get to break under your authority?"

"Dismissed." The General's tone was final. He had clearly grown tired of them.

Once outside, Aelfraed turned to Godefrid, horrified. "Are you crazy? You can't talk to a general like that! Our careers are over. I'll be lucky if they just send me back to base."

"Relax, Aelfraed. Nothing will happen," the Sergeant said, trying to reassure him.

"How can you know that?"

"Because it's a suicide mission."

"He's quite right," Godefrid said. "The General is sending us off, fully expecting us to die. They must be desperate. I could have insulted his mother and he wouldn't have cared. He needs us. Our deaths will be punishment enough."

"Well, I feel much better," Aelfraed replied flatly.

"Don't worry," Godefrid said. "They're underestimating us."



"Mr. Nibel Nibelung?" A man in a white doctor's gown called out. Nibel followed him into the office. "Please, take a seat." The doctor had all the right equipment, but his face put Nibel on edge—sharp features and an intense stare behind oval, wire-framed glasses.

"Age?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You don't know your age? Everything about the Nibelung is documented."

"I didn't grow up in a home. I was a slave in the asteroid mines until recently."

"Fascinating. Show me the mark." The doctor studied his palm. "Yes, it's genuine. Would you like to know your age?"

"Yes."

"Sit here, then." The doctor took blood and saliva samples. "And put your hand in that machine. It will reconstruct the skin to hide the mark."

Nibel waited as the machine worked, the sensation not painful but strangely ticklish. He could hear the doctor muttering "Fascinating" and "Interesting" at his computer screen.

"You're approximately nineteen," the doctor said finally.

Was there something interesting about my results?" Nibel asked.

The doctor looked at him with sudden suspicion. "What makes you ask that?"

"I heard you say they were interesting."

"Oh, that?" The doctor relaxed, his mouth forming a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I just saw some unusual markers in your genetic code. Nothing you'd understand, and nothing dangerous, I assure you." He paused, his gaze sharp. "Tell me, do you know anything about your parents?"

"No. Nothing."

"A shame."

"Would it help if I did?"

"Not really. Let's call it scientific curiosity. Anyway," he said, his tone shifting back to clinical, "you can remove your hand now."

Nibel looked at his palm. The mark was gone. He wondered if he should feel liberated, but it just felt like something was missing.

"One last thing." The doctor gave him a quick injection. "That will protect you from foreign pathogens. Can't have you dying to some alien bug."

"Thank you. Is there really nothing that you can tell me about that genetic code?"

The doctor looked at him intently "hmm, let's just say you're a true Nibelung."

"A true Nibelung?"

"Yes, that's about all I can say. Now you have a good day." The doctor smiled and sent him on his way.

---

The group arrived at the spaceport. Aelfraed, as usual in a new place, was restless. "So this is where civilians travel. Look at all the restaurants. We just get a military cafeteria. Let's get something to eat."

"I suppose we have time," Godefrid said. "The food is usually better planetside."

They found a bistro and sat down.

A waitress approached with a smile. "Hello, what can I get you today?"

They placed their orders.

"Of course. I'll be right back with your drinks."

"She's pretty," Aelfraed said as she left. "And I think she likes me."

Nibel was confused. "How can you tell?"

"She looked me in the eyes and smiled when I ordered. She was really nice."

The waitress returned with their drinks. "Here you are. Enjoy your meal."

"Thanks, beautiful," Aelfraed said.

"Oh, stop it," she replied playfully before moving to another table.

"See? I told you," Aelfraed said victoriously.

Godefrid looked at him with pity. The Sergeant wore a similar expression.

"Aelfraed…" Godefrid began.

The Sergeant cut in, deciding to be direct. "This is just how people are treated without the mark. You're mistaking basic decency for something else."

Aelfraed's smile faded. "Oh. Right."

Nibel felt a pang of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Aelfraed. Things will get better." The words felt hollow. They all knew their lives would always be different.

"Indeed," Godefrid added, his tone oddly genuine. "Nibel will make sure of it. And until then, you can always visit the brothels with our good sergeant here."

"Oh God, no," Aelfraed said, a flash of panic returning before he settled back into his usual demeanor. "Anything but that. I'd rather never know a woman again than relive that night."

"I said I was sorry," the Sergeant replied, his face flushed with embarrassment. "And for your information, I'm perfectly courteous when I'm sober."

"See?" Godefrid said. "The perfect wingman."

Nibel laughed but then looked at his right palm and he thought about how a simple mark could dictate the course of a life. Was this how ordinary people were treated every day? Why did this one thing make their lives so drastically different?

An announcement echoed through the terminal. "The ship for planet Buranvek will depart shortly. All passengers, please proceed to gate 47."

"That's us," the Sergeant said.

"Let our mission begin," Godefrid said, giving Nibel a foreboding wink.

 

[Alasw1]

After a few days in transit, their ship touched down at Buranvek's main spaceport. A large sign greeted them: "Welcome to Lermontovsk."


"Is the city named after the Commander?" Aelfraed asked, noticing the sign.


"Yes," the Sergeant replied, frustration in his voice. "The great war hero Lermontov had his homeland's capital named after him. He was also given a high ceremonial role in government."


"He's really that important," Aelfraed said, the gravity of their mission settling over him.


"You could say that," the Sergeant said. "He'd be equivalent to a Marquess in the Empire. Maybe even as symbolic as a Duke."


Aelfraed felt a noose tightening around his neck.


"Yes, quite a formidable target," Godefrid added, his tone oddly light. "But the taxi awaits. We have places to be." He gestured them toward a waiting vehicle.


"Hello there," the taxi driver said cheerfully. "Where are you from?"


"Nasturia," Nibel replied when no one else did.


"Oh, Nasturia? I hear there are bad people there. Horrible monsters, they say."


The Sergeant bit his tongue.


"Terrifying," Godefrid smiled. "We sleep with one eye open so they don't snatch us in the night."


"Oh, that's scary! What's wrong with your friend? He looks unwell." The driver had noticed Aelfraed's pale face.


"Him? He hates space travel. Says it's unnatural. Makes him sick," Godefrid lied.


"Ah, weird kid," the driver laughed.


"Yeah. I can't help it," Aelfraed forced a chuckle.


They arrived at their destination. The square was surrounded by concrete towers plastered with neon ads, reminiscent of the Nasturian slums but denser. A large mosaic in the center depicted men standing victorious on an urban battlefield. Godefrid studied it with great interest.


"You like mosaics?" Nibel asked. He realized he knew little of Godefrid's interests beyond war and, apparently, his own development.


"It's the subject, not the medium. Isn't it a beautiful depiction of war?"


Nibel looked. "I guess. Can war be beautiful?"


"Oh, indeed. And when you see its ugliness, you'll understand. You can't have darkness without light. It's ironic, really. The UOPR wages war in an ugly manner, yet their art is so idealistic. They understand the concept but cannot grasp the reality."


For once, Godefrid's words made Nibel think rather than just confuse him. He stared at the mosaic, searching its details for the bigger picture.


"Follow me," a man called out. "Your tour is ready."


"Ah, the guide! Come, friends," Godefrid said. "Our tour begins."


The man led them to a hangar near the river and into a small room overlooking the main area. Another man waited inside.


"You must be the team they sent," he said, looking them over.


"Indeed," Godefrid replied. "So, tell us how we are to achieve this mission you've handed us."


"How? We can provide support, but the method is your problem."


"And what support can you offer?"


"Information. Look at this screen." He brought up a schematic. "This is Lermontov's mansion. And we know he will be there five days from now."


"You know he'll be in his own home?" the Sergeant asked, stating the obvious.


"For a man as elusive as him, knowing his location at a specific time is a significant feat," the man replied proudly.


"And?" Godefrid prompted.


"That's it."


"That's it?" the Sergeant said, annoyed. "You expect us to kill him with just that?"


"Watch your tongue. I know what you are, Nibelung," the man replied, his tone menacing.


"And what will you do? Dismiss us and kill him yourself?"


The man fell silent.


"Arguing is unproductive," Godefrid interjected. "We need a plan."


"How?" Aelfraed said nervously. "We're supposed to kill one of the UOPR's most important men with crumbs. What's next? Killing Volkhan with a toothpick?"


The Sergeant exhaled. "Let's start brainstorming. The most obvious: a sniper rifle."


"The windows are bulletproof. The grounds are heavily guarded. They check every delivery."


"Does he like women? A honey trap?"


"All his companions are vetted. Thorough background checks."


"Mail bomb then?"

"They check every letter."
"Then we infiltrate disguised."


"They don't do business with unknowns. You'd be arrested and interrogated. Horrifically."


"Are there any weaknesses at all?"


Godefrid, who had been silent, seemed deep in thought.


"Any ideas, Godefrid?" the Sergeant asked.


"I see a vantage point. Is his bedroom within its line of sight?"


"No, it's on the other side."


"But you said he enjoys female company?"


"Yes, quite actively. More than average."


"How likely during his stay?"


"There's a high chance. He's hosting a party for the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Marianostok. He's known to get frisky at parties."


"And he has a wife?"


"Yes."


"A long shot, but a man of repute rarely cheats in his marital bed. He might use a guest room on this side."


"Possibly. But the windows are still bulletproof."


"Then we remove the windows."


"Easier said than done."


"You exist solely to argue," Godefrid said, his voice tired. "How do you know the windows are bulletproof? How do you have any of this information?"


"That's confidential."


"Tell me," Godefrid's tone became uncharacteristically serious. "Do you want us to succeed? Or are you sending us to die?"


"Of course not. I have to protect my sources."


"Are you satisfied with your position?"


"I suppose. It could be better."


"Imagine where you could be if we succeed. If we die, you're stuck here. If we succeed and I report it was thanks to you... you would be the man who made Lermontov's assassination possible. A legend in intelligence."


The man thought for a moment. "Okay. But if you're caught, this dies with you."


"You have my word," Godefrid smiled.


"We have some influence over the companies that handle the mansion's exterior upkeep."


"What?" the Sergeant said angrily. "Why not use them to get us in?"


"Impossible. They only work on the exterior—cleaning windows. They're not allowed inside. If we burn them and you fail, they're shot, I'm shot, and we lose our only access."


"No reward without risk," Godefrid replied. "And imagine how beautiful the reward."


The man looked convinced. "Okay. But they're only scheduled the day before the party to clean the exterior."


"So we go in then," the Sergeant said. "Hide until the target appears."


"No. They ensure everyone who arrives also leaves. Vehicles are scanned. No stowaways. The guards will be watching the cleaners constantly."


"Then we use it to plant explosives?"

"Even if you managed to sneak it past the guards you most likely won't be able to get inside. You'll be under constant observation."
"I'VE GOT IT!" Godefrid exclaimed, a triumphant look on his face.


"Got what?" the Sergeant asked.


"A plan."


"Really?"


"Yes. We need piezoelectric transducers."


"Piezo-what?" Aelfraed interjected, completely lost.


"Small devices that vibrate at specific frequencies. Glue one to a window, and it can crack it. We place it during the cleaning, wait for the target, activate it remotely, and when the window cracks... we take the shot."


The group stared at him, dumbfounded. They knew he was a battlefield genius, but this was another level.


"There's still the issue of getting a clear line of sight," the Sergeant said.


Godefrid looked at him. "You have special tactical training. Getting close to an enemy position shouldn't be an issue."


The Sergeant studied the screen. "The mansion has its own biome with long grass and trees. We use camouflage, advance slowly by day, and dig in at night. It should be enough to reach the vantage point unseen."


"Shouldn't we move at night?" Aelfraed asked.


"No. Modern sensors make night worthless. Infrared spots a human easily. The human eye is much easier to fool."


"Perfect!" Godefrid was delighted. "Then it's settled. Now we put it all in motion."

 

[Alasw1]

The group split into two teams. Aelfraed and Godefrid were tasked with shattering the window and preparing the escape, while Gerhard, as the sharpshooter, would take the shot with Nibel as his spotter.


"Here, put this on," Godefrid said, handing Aelfraed a full-head helmet.


"What's it for?"


"It will rearrange your facial features and mask your biometrics. Cameras and the people we're meeting won't recognize you."


"What? I don't want to change my face."


"Aelfraed, would you prefer to be caught and shot?"


Aelfraed sighed. "Fine. Give it here."


"I should add, the effect is temporary. Your muscles will relax and your face will return to normal."


"You could have led with that."


"But then I'd miss your complaints. They've become a source of joy for me."


Aelfraed put the device on and pressed a button. Instantly, tiny needles pricked at his skin. Godefrid put on his own.


"So why am I stuck with you instead of being on the shooter team?"


"Do you think you could handle the pressure? You've looked like a man on death row since we left the general's office."


"But Nibel can handle it?"


"Oh? Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"


Aelfraed exhaled. "No, that was unfair. I'm just frustrated with myself. You're Godefrid the Stormsverd, a legend on base. After Nibel won his duel, they started calling him Vígmadr. The Sergeant is respected for his competence. But what do I have?"


"Insecurities, it seems."


"Yeah. I guess so. What do you see in Nibel, anyway? Why be so determined to be his mentor?"


"Do you believe in prophecy, Aelfraed?"


"Never gave it much thought. I only consider religion because of this cursed mark."


"A few generations ago, a prophecy was common. It spoke of a boy, lower than all, who would rise above and free our people from their chains."


"I've never heard of it."


"That's because the unit that carried the story was eradicated."


"Oh. That would do it. And you believe Nibel is the one?"


"Belief is irrelevant. It may be true, it may be false. What matters is whether we can make it real. Is that not true agency? To be the arbiter of whether a divine will comes to pass? We, the Nibelung, shall be the prophets of our own story, just as Alvaldr was of his."


Aelfraed didn't know how to reply. He stared at the wall as the device continued its work. Can a Nibelung truly be the master of his own destiny? He was so lost in thought he didn't notice the pricking had stopped. A knock came at the door. The window cleaners had arrived.


Meanwhile, Nibel and Gerhard had begun their infiltration. Nibel's muscles were stiff and cramped from lying for hours in the grass and leaf litter. The Sergeant had forbidden him from washing; the guards could smell soap from a mile away, he said. The same went for fragrant food, so their diet was limited to tasteless nutrient bars. It was almost worse than the mines, the food was the same, but even his dirty bunk had been more comfortable than this.


They progressed slowly, covering only a few hundred meters each day. But just as the Sergeant had planned, they reached a patch of tall grass. There, they dug a shallow hole to hide their heat signatures from surveillance drones. Nibel was relieved; their tools had allowed them to create a small tunnel where they could at least stretch their legs.


"Gather some grass," the Sergeant instructed. "It'll be your sleeping bag tonight."


Nibel did as he was told, and they both settled into the hole. He finally stretched out, arranging his bed of grass. He was surprised by how warm it kept him; the grass was a surprisingly good insulator.


"Nibel?"


"Yes, Sergeant."


"Are you adapting to this life?"


"Overall, yes. But this… I think this will take longer to get used to."


The Sergeant let out a soft chuckle. "Infiltration isn't about adaptation. It's about mental fortitude. You believe you can do it, and you keep moving. You ignore the discomfort."


"Yeah. There's no turning back now. No choice but to accept it."


A silence fell between them.


"Sergeant?"


"Yeah?"


"Do you believe in anything?"


"Spiritually, you mean?"


"Spiritual, or otherwise."


"I believe in Alvaldr. Hard not to when you carry a curse from him."


"Is that the only reason?"


"No. I also believe in freedom through war. He showed us that strength is the only real truth. The other gods' wants didn't matter. When he slew them, only his will remained. You can debate right and wrong, but strength decides reality. Everything else is just idealism. What about you, Nibel? What do you believe in?"


"In the mines, I disconnected from reality. I never thought about it. Now that I have some control, I'm starting to wonder. When I said I would seize my destiny, it was mostly out of anger, a way to fight my slave mindset. But how? It was Alvaldr's will that made us slaves, and by his will it will end. How do you convince a god?"


"That, lad, is the question we've all been asking. Until we have an answer, all we can do is fight. We honor him through warfare and hope he honors us in return."


"Makes sense." But Nibel wasn't convinced. How do you move forward without a path? How do you convince a god? How do you know if your actions honor him? He fell asleep turning these questions over in his mind.


The next few days were as grueling as the first. They continued their slow trek, crawling through mud, leaves, and dirt. Insects crawled over their skin; their own stench grew worse by the day. Finally, they reached the vantage point. First, they laid false tracks leading back the way they had come, a misdirection for their pursuers after the hit. They took cover under the grass, heaping dirt over themselves, and settled in to wait.


"Observe the windows," the Sergeant whispered. "Tell me when you see him."


"Yes, sir."


Hours passed. Nibel watched for movement, hesitating to blink. Housekeepers came and went. Guests were seen embracing in some rooms. But there was no sign of Lermontov. Then, just as Godefrid had predicted, he entered a room on the third floor.


"Target spotted. Third floor, second window from the left."


"Got it. On my signal, press the button."


"Yes, sir."


Nibel watched as Lermontov moved around the room. He had brought three women with him. They were laughing, stumbling as they undressed, clearly drunk. Lermontov sat down in a chair, perfectly framed by the window.


"Now."


Nibel pressed the button. A web of fractures instantly crazed every window on the building. Lermontov barely had time to look up before a single shot rang out. Gerhard's round took him straight through the head.


"Now we move. North, not the way we came."


They moved quickly. There was no time for stealth now. Alarms blared from the mansion, followed by frantic shouts. They took care to leave no trail from their position, hoping to send pursuers back along their false path. They reached a river, ditched the rifle and scope in the current, and pressed on until they found a road where Godefrid and Aelfraed waited with a vehicle. A policeman seemed to be inspecting their van.


"Just keep moving," the Sergeant instructed.


Nibel complied, walking forward until an officer noticed them.


"HEY! YOU! STATE YOUR NA—"


The Sergeant's sidearm cracked once. The policeman dropped.


The shot startled Nibel, but there was no time to think. He scrambled into the back of the van, and they sped away.


"Did you do it?" Aelfraed asked.


"He's dead," the Sergeant confirmed.


"Marvelous!" Godefrid cried with joy.


As the adrenaline faded, Nibel's thoughts began to settle. He looked at the Sergeant. He just executed a policeman. In cold blood. Without a moment's hesitation. He knew the Sergeant was a soldier, a killer. They all were. But something about the act felt deeply, unsettlingly wrong.


They arrived at the hangar and met the liaison officer. Two other men stood with him.


"You're here. That means you succeeded?" the officer asked, his voice tight with nerves.


"Who are they?" the Sergeant asked, gesturing to the two men.


"The window cleaners who placed your devices. So, did you succeed?"


"Yes. The target is dead."


"Oh, thank God." The officer turned and shot both men in the head.


Nibel stared, horrified. "What the hell? Why?"


"Was that truly necessary?" Godefrid asked, watching the blood pool around the bodies.


"No one can know the Empire was involved. No one. Do you understand?" The officer's gaze was hard. "Consider yourselves lucky you're not on the chopping block, too. Now go. Your transport is waiting."


They were rushed to the spaceport for immediate departure. On the way, Godefrid noted Nibel's disturbed expression.


"Now that you have seen the ugliness," he told him quietly, "you will soon learn to recognize the beauty."

 

[Alasw1]

Nibel stared out at the star-dusted void. Behind him, the others rested on their bunks. The ship would reach Nasturia soon, but after the mission's chaos, the journey offered a needed chance to breathe.


"Godefrid, can I ask you something?" Aelfraed called from his bunk.


"Shoot," Godefrid replied, deftly spinning a small rod through his fingers.


"Why us? Nibel and I are rookies. You and the Sergeant have experience, but you're not assassins."


"Do you know a Nibelung's purpose?" the Sergeant interjected.


"To fight?"


"Tools," Godefrid answered. "What do you do with a tool that's more dangerous than useful?"


"You throw it away," Nibel said, turning from the viewport.


"Exactly. Why keep something that's more likely to hurt you than help? It becomes worthless."


"So we have to constantly prove we're useful?" Aelfraed asked, voice rising. "Otherwise we're finished?"


The concept felt familiar to Nibel. Wasn't this how life worked? His entire existence had operated on this principle. Nothing came without something given in return.


"Isn't that how life is?" Nibel asked Aelfraed.


"What would you know about life? You spent yours as a slave," Aelfraed snapped.


"And you weren't? Just because your cage was gilded doesn't mean you were free."


"Enough," the Sergeant cut in. "Aelfraed, to answer your question: make yourself useful or appear harmless. After what we just did, harmless isn't an option."


"Of course not," Aelfraed muttered.


"Indeed," Godefrid added. "The Duke will want to keep us very close now."


"Make yourself useful," Aelfraed repeated bitterly, sinking back into his bunk.


"What happens next?" Nibel asked.


"First, congratulations," the Sergeant said.


"Then a formal ceremony integrating us into the Duke's personal units," Godefrid finished.


"Doesn't he already own us? Why the ceremony?"


"The NSL must appear to serve the Empire first. The formalities show the Duke only commands a small part of the legion. Better for appearances."


"Appearances for who?"


"The other Dukes. The Emperor. The corporations. Anyone with power. Power inspires jealousy. When you have strength, hide it until needed, or someone will try to take it from you."


"I see," Nibel said.


"That applies to us too," the Sergeant added. "Even as your reputation grows, stay humble. Don't make Godefrid's mistake and get us all sent to the gallows."


"You wound me, Sergeant. Yet I have no counter-argument."


"I understand," Nibel said. "I will, sir."


"You too, Aelfraed."


"Yes, sir."


Back on base, the soldiers' high spirits offered a welcome contrast to the men's recent ordeal. Nibel found himself a minor celebrity; fellow soldiers regularly stopped to congratulate him on his duel. He learned they cared little for matters beyond their immediate concern, but they loved stories of battle and martial prowess.


Their time on base was short-lived. Soon, they received orders to report to the capital for a personal audience with the Duke. This time, there would be no leisurely drive, they were flying directly.


The helicopter soared over the wastelands. Nibel looked down at the vertical farms they had passed a week earlier.


Godefrid called for their attention. "So, are you ready to become heroes?" he asked, his joy laced with noticeable sarcasm.


"Can't wait!" the Sergeant played along.


"Listen," Godefrid said, his tone shifting to the uncharacteristic seriousness that had become common lately. "We need to discuss our audience with the esteemed Duke Reginald the Second."


"What about?" Nibel asked.


"How to act. This is critical. You will remain at attention throughout. Look straight ahead. Under no circumstances are you to make eye contact."


"Why?" Aelfraed scoffed. "Is he Medusa?"


"Oh, Aelfraed, he is far worse. If he gets his hooks into you, you'll wish you had turned to stone."


Aelfraed's smirk vanished, realizing Godefrid wasn't joking.


"Especially you, Nibel. Show no emotion. None. Do you understand?"


"Yes, sir. I'll do my best," Nibel replied, the pressure settling on him.


"No. You must be perfect. Not one mistake. Do you understand?" Godefrid's gaze was intense, seeming to look straight through him.


Nibel mastered his nerves. "Yes, sir."


"It'll be fine, lads. Probably..." the Sergeant said, his tone reassuring. "Come on now. We've arrived." He gestured toward the exit.


They were brought to the cathedral, a towering structure of limestone with a facade covered in geometric carvings and statues of imperial saints and heroes. Nibel stepped forward, drawn to it, but Godefrid put a hand out to stop him.
"Not that way."
They were led away from the main entrance, down underground, and into a large hall. The walls and pillars were bare concrete. Light fell in shafts from glass openings in the roof. At the far end stood a stone altar. Behind it, a massive painting covered the entire wall: a man in imperial armour crushing another under his boot.


"Where are we?" Nibel asked.
"The Nibelung chapel," the Sergeant replied.
"And the painting?"
"Emperor Ingmar the Third crushing the leader of our rebellion."
"What was his name?"
"We aren't allowed to know. It was erased as part of the punishment."


They were led to the altar where a priest in gold and red robes stood.
"Kneel and await the Duke," he instructed.


They did not wait long.
"All rise for His Grace, Duke Reginald the Second."


The Duke entered and walked to the altar. He studied them each in turn. Nibel remembered Godefrid's warning and stood perfectly still, staring straight ahead.


Aelfraed's eyes flickered up, briefly meeting the Duke's gaze before he snapped his focus forward again.


The Duke allowed a faint, knowing smile to touch his lips. Then he addressed the group.

"My loyal soldiers," the Duke began. "I sent you on a perilous task with grave misgivings. I knew the cost, but I also knew only you could succeed. Your return vindicates that faith. You have performed a deed that will be remembered and have brought honour to the Nibelung name. In better times, I would decorate you with the highest honours. Circumstance denies us that. So instead, I grant you this blessing. May it weaken the ancient curse on your blood and hasten the day of your full liberation. For the eternal glory of the Volsung Empire and its God, Alvaldr. So speaks your Duke. So may it be."


The men saluted, fists striking their chests. "For Volsung! For Alvaldr!"


"Now, priest," the Duke said.


The priest stepped forward, anointing each of their marks with blood from a small bowl.
"Children of Nibelung, receive this mark of remembrance. Carry the weight of your ancestors' sin, that you may strive ever harder for forgiveness."


An assistant passed a censer over their hands, smoke curling around their wrists.
"As this sacred smoke purifies the air, so may your service purify your souls. You are the instruments of Alvaldr's will. Go forth and burn away your disgrace in the fires of battle."


"Now," the priest commanded. "Face the testament of your failure and swear your oath."


They turned as one toward the painting of their defeat.
"We offer our bodies and souls. We, the Nibelung, exist only to serve. In this servitude, we seek our salvation. Oh Alvaldr, have mercy on us. Cleanse our sin as we cleanse the battlefield for you."


"It is sworn!" the priest declared, ending the ceremony.


The Duke's voice was crisp and practical. "Now, come. The integration ceremony awaits."

They followed the Duke's airship to a vast parade ground. A stage stood at one end, and behind it, their Technechts stood like silent giants. Before them, thousands of soldiers stood at perfect attention. They landed and took their places in front of their respective machines. The Duke stepped to the center of the stage, his gaze sweeping over the army.


"My soldiers!" he began, his voice carrying across the field. "Today, we welcome new blood. Men who have been tested in fire and proven themselves worthy. By their courage, they have earned the right to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you. It is my honour to receive their oaths and place them under my banner. Through faithful service to their Duke, they shall serve the Empire itself, and bring fresh strength to our cause. May they win great victories in the battles to come, and may every triumph add new lustre to the name of Volsung. Now, if you may, recite your oaths."


In unison, their voices joined by the thousands of soldiers on the field, they spoke the familiar words:
"I, Nibelung, scion of traitors, do swear my unwavering loyalty to His Grace, Duke Reginald the Second, to His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Wulfstan, first of his name, and to the eternal Volsung Empire. There is one God, Alvaldr, and my mark is the proof of my submission to His divine will. Through service, I seek redemption. Through obedience, I embrace my fate. May my life be a testament to this oath."


"Good," the Duke said. "Now, salute!"


As one, the entire field brought fists to chests in a single, percussive beat, their shout deafening: "FOR REGINALD! FOR VOLSUNG! FOR ALVALDR!"


A powerful, almost electric excitement surged through Nibel. He glanced at Godefrid, who looked back with the triumphant smile of a man who had just won a great victory.

 

[Alasw1]

Nibel moved his arms and legs, relishing the feeling of being back in his Technecht. In space, he had a freedom that was utterly absent when confined to foot.


"Just the three of us. Feels odd without Godefrid," the Sergeant said over the comms.


"Where is he?" Nibel asked. "He vanished after the ceremony."


"The Duke's keeping him close. And overworking him. I doubt we'll see him until our next major mission."


"Must be nice to be in the Duke's good graces," Aelfraed chimed in.


"Careful what you wish for, lad. Your standard of living improves, but your life expectancy drops. At that height, one misstep is your last. So many have passed under that axe, I'm amazed it's still sharp."


"Ah, maybe I'll pass, then. I like my head right where it is. Oh, and Nibel?"


"Yeah?"


"Sorry about what I said on the ship. The stress got to me. I want you to know I've got your back."


"It's okay. I could have reacted better, too. I've got yours."


"Glad you lads made up," the Sergeant cut in. "Now, our mission. We're escorting the Duke of Marca. Intelligence says there's a threat on his life, likely during this journey."


"Another assassination? Is there a covert war on?" Aelfraed asked.


"There's always a covert war. Be grateful. It means we'll always have work."


"Yeah, as long as the missions aren't suicidal, count me in."


They took up positions around the Duke's ship, their Technechts observing the endless void.


"How long is the journey?" Nibel asked.


"Not long, but perilous. We're passing through multiple shipping lanes. Any ship could be a threat. The real danger is the nebula ahead. It scrambles sensors. If they attack, it will be there. We'll be fighting blind. Stay sharp."


"Yes, sir. Will three of us be enough?"


"Should be. Moving a large force through Imperial space is impossible. It'll be a small hit team, if anything."


"Like we were. This feels familiar."


"Don't be surprised if that feeling lasts. We're approaching the nebula. On your guard. Audio comms should still work, so listen for anything."


"Roger."


They entered the nebula. Silence fell over the comms as they listened to the static and cosmic rumbles. An hour passed. Then a second. In the third, a low ping echoed.


"What was that?" Aelfraed whispered.


"Quiet," the Sergeant ordered. "Move toward the noise."


They advanced, scanning intently. A faint shoooo followed.


"They're close. Be ready to engage."


Suddenly, a high-frequency whine started, rising rapidly in pitch.


"SHIELDS! NOW!" the Sergeant yelled.


Aelfraed raised his shield just in time, blocking an energy blast. Nibel fired at the dark shape where the shot originated, and it exploded. A second whine started; this time, Aelfraed fired, destroying a threat behind Nibel.


"Well done," Nibel said.


"I know, right?" Aelfraed replied, satisfied.


"Quiet. There will be more."


They continued scanning. The nebula returned to its eerie static. Several minutes later, a multilayered, deafening ROAR erupted from the void.


"THEY'VE GIVEN UP ON STEALTH! PREPARE FOR DIRECT ENGAGEMENT!"


"YES, SIR!" Nibel and Aelfraed responded in unison.


An enemy gunship soared past, ignoring them to target the Duke's vessel.


"OH NO, YOU DON'T!" The Sergeant intercepted it, his energy sword cleaving it in two. Nibel charged ahead, shield raised, dodging fire. Aelfraed followed close behind. BOOM. Three more enemy ships vanished.


A voice crackled over an open channel. "ARGHH, I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!"


"Was that necessary?" Aelfraed asked.


"I think his intentions were already clear," Nibel replied, laughing.


Their banter was cut short as a group of enemy Technechts emerged from the cosmic dust.


"Time to get serious, I guess," Aelfraed said.


A shot whizzed past as the Sergeant expertly blew an enemy's cockpit apart. Aelfraed and Nibel charged, clashing swords with the remaining units. Aelfraed struggled against his opponent until the Sergeant stabbed it from behind.


"Thanks."


"Pay attention."


Aelfraed regained his focus, pressing his next adversary. A shot rang out; he kicked the enemy back and raised his shield just in time to cover Nibel's flank.


"That was close," Nibel said, destroying the unit Aelfraed had been fighting.


"Real close. You owe me one," Aelfraed chuckled.


With their numbers dwindling, the enemy's defeat was clear. As the last two tried to retreat, the Sergeant blocked their path. The one who had threatened them opened a channel.


"We surrender."


"We're the NSL. We don't accept surrenders," the Sergeant replied.


"The NSL? What are you doing in Marca?"


"Stopping you. Isn't it obvious?"


"This isn't what he said would happen!"


"Who said?"


"Let us live, and we'll tell you everything."


The Sergeant sighed. "Let me ask the Duke." He went silent.


"Surrender is for cowards," Aelfraed shot at the enemy.


"Isn't it better to be a live coward than brave but dead?"


"You annoy me."


The Sergeant came back online. "The Lord will hear your testimony."


"Glad we have a deal."


"Wait!" Aelfraed cried out.


"What is it?" the Sergeant asked.


"His life should be earned. I want a duel. If he wins, I'll accept his surrender."


"Now? What about what he knows?"


"Yes. I'm sure his friend will still talk to save his own skin, right?"


The other enemy soldier confirmed.


"So? What do you say?" Aelfraed challenged.


"You didn't even need to blackmail me. I'd be happy to put you in your place." The enemy pilot taunted.


They faced each other, waiting for the signal.


"BEGIN."


They shot toward one another, swords clashing on impact. Aelfraed drew his sidearm, firing at point-blank range. The enemy dodged, strafing right, and pushed him back. Return fire forced Aelfraed to raise his shield. He charged again, but the enemy aimed directly at his cockpit. Aelfraed raised the shield to block—a feint. The enemy used the shield as a platform to kick him backward, then hurled a cluster of hyper-dense cartridges. A single shot triggered a chain explosion that shattered Aelfraed's shield and crippled his Technecht. The enemy rushed in for the kill but halted at the last second.


"I think that's enough. If I killed him I doubt you would let me go. I've earned my life, right?"


"FUUUCK!" Aelfraed screamed. "JUST DO IT! DON'T SHAME ME ANY FURTHER!"


"You feel shame? I didn't know your people understood the concept."


"Enough," the Sergeant interjected. "You've earned it. But you will not speak of what happened here today."


"You too, Sergeant? I'M NOT A COWARD!"


"I'm not saying you are. You took your first duel too early and were outclassed. Accept the loss. Forget today and train for the next time."


"Tsk." Aelfraed burned with rage and humiliation. "Next time, yeah, next time…" he muttered repeatedly


"Let's take them back to the ship," the Sergeant ordered.


Back on the ship, the Duke awaited them on the bridge. Nibel's first impression was one of awe. The man stood in a black formal military uniform adorned with gold buttons, his dark green cape flowing behind him against the backdrop of space. He projected an impressive aura, similar to Duke Reginald's but less overtly threatening. It wasn't that he seemed less dangerous, but Nibel sensed a different quality—a greater air of righteousness.


"So, these are the men who tried to kill me?" the Duke asked.


"Uh, sorry, Your Excellency. A lapse in judgment, you know?" the enemy soldier, Smed, replied instantly.


The Sergeant ordered him to be quiet. "Yes, these are the men. Go on. Tell him what you know."


"So, can I speak now, or not?"


"Don't test my patience."


"Alright, alright. We were hired to kill you, Your, uh, Dukeness."


"That much is obvious. Why?"


"I wouldn't know. I'm just a mercenary. The pay was good, and I needed the money."


"Then what use are you to me? Why shouldn't I have you executed?"


"Okay, look. I can give you information. Might even lead you to the answer. But first, I need a guarantee you won't, you know…" He made a cutting motion across his throat.


The Duke sighed. "You say you're a mercenary?"


"That's right, sir. They call me Smed. One of the best."


"You don't look it."


"Well, we weren't expecting the Nibelung," he laughed nervously.


The Sergeant chimed in. "I can attest to his skill. He would be well-ranked among our own."


"Would he now?" The Duke turned back to Smed. "Tell me, mercenary, would you work for me?"


"If your money's good."


"Of course. And let your first payment be your life. Do you agree?"


Smed chuckled nervously. "You drive a hard bargain, but sure."


"Succeed in revealing who is responsible, and you will be paid handsomely."


"Can't argue with that."


"So speak. How do we find who wants me dead?"


"I can bring you to my contact. He should know. And as luck has it, he's on your home planet. No detour required."


"It's a start. But I'll need more convincing than the word of a captured mercenary."


"Yeah, fair. I'll give you something in good faith. There's another hit team waiting near your planet, in case we failed. It's a cargo ship." He provided the identification number. "I'm sure that's worth something, right?"


"It's a start. Take them to the brig," the Duke ordered the guards. "We'll continue this when we approach Marca."


Once the prisoners were led away, the Duke turned to the Nibelung. "Now, for you. First, let me thank you for defending my ship today." He extended his hand to Nibel, who stared at it in shock.


"Sir… you want to shake my hand? You don't mind my mark?"


"You risked your lives for mine today," the Duke said, forcefully taking Nibel's hand. "That means more than any mark."


After shaking each of their hands, the Duke's tone turned businesslike. "Regarding this contact, I would like you to investigate further."


"Of course, sir," the Sergeant replied. "But wouldn't your regular military be better suited?"


"No. The target will flee if men in uniform start knocking on doors. You can pose as part of the mercenary's group." The Duke paused. "But in truth, I believe you have a particular competence for this. I can't think of any of my men who could pull it off as you would."


"If that is your judgment, Your Grace, we will oblige."


"Then it's settled. You will be notified as we approach Marca. You and the mercenary will be transported separately."


"Yes, Your Grace."


"And if he acts out of line," the Duke added, his tone final, "execute him."


"Understood."

 

[Alasw1]

For anyone interesting in following the story further I'll be posting all future chapters here https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/142774/mark-of-the-nibelung