The trenches of the northern front were an open grey wound upon the the Dune Sea. Between the trenches of the Alliance and Federation, “No Man’s Land” was practically another world. The narrow three hundred meter strip of devastated land was devoid of all life. Long before, the lush earth tones of its soil had been blackened by countless artillery barrages, gas attacks, and failed charges. Human bones in various states of decay lay scattered about its pockmarked reaches. Even carrion birds dared not feast in such an unforgiving place.

The landscape was being reshaped once again however. Fountains of soil, bone, and metal erupted at an astonishing rate as round after round of artillery impacted the already wounded earth. At the Federation front, the thunder of guns was beyond sanity. Across the entire northern front, the largest artillery barrage in the history of Ruin had been rolling on for nearly a week.

Clouds of poisonous gas crawled along the ground, seeking their next victims. Surviving the rain of fire simply meant facing the deadly fog. The vibrations of tens of thousands of projectiles striking the ground across a one hundred kilometer line seemed to lock the trenches in a permanent small earthquake.

There was little more the Federation soldiers could do but hunker down, don their gas masks, and wait out the metal storm. Assuming they survived their short stay under constant barrage, they would be rotated to the rear, shell shocked, and new troops would be sent to the meat grinder.

The effects of endless artillery were more than just psychological. Many suffered various physical ailments. Uncontrollable shaking, permanently contorted backs often nicknamed “trench spine”, and paralysis struck scores of soldiers. In nearly every case, they were considered “combat ineffective” and evacuated to trauma hospitals back in the city.

Morale was falling as casualty figures began to mount. Worst of all, the enemy hadn’t even begun their advance.

“General, I have the latest figures here,” Lieutenant Colonel Mason’s voice cut through the endless thunder taking place just a few meters above the soil. Vachir turned away from the battlemap he had laid out on a rotting wood table, deep in their command bunker. The worn surface of parchment had turned a shade of dirty brown under the continuous sprinkle of dirt and grime that fell with each rumbling artillery strike.

On the map, various tokens represented their operational state. From the left flank at Green River to their right flank at the southern tip of the Dune Sea, metal bars lined up side by side to represent their front line divisions. Not far behind those, rows of small bronze X’s showed the position of Federation artillery. Worst though was, on the Alliance side of the front, there were no icons.

For weeks, the Alliance trenches had been blanketed in an eerie grey fog. No doubt, the work of the Prophetess’ many awakened of air. It was maddeningly frustrating. Day after day, streaks of artillery fire rained down on his men from a blinding wall of fog. They couldn’t even see their enemy. FedCom had decided to hold the Federation artillery until targets presented themselves. Unlike the Alliance and Holy Land forces, they could not afford to expend ammunition blindly.

Vachir grabbed the clipboard from his second and quickly poured over the figures. During the first few days of the bombardment, he would read every bit in detail but, after a week of the senseless destruction, he found that each new report just deepened his depression. Quickly flipping through the pages, he made his way to the last one.

Sighing, he read the final figures, “Seven days of day and night bombardment. Over four thousand dead. Three times that many wounded or psychologically unfit. Damnit all!” He slammed the clipboard down on the table. The aging wood construction swayed from the sudden impact. “Our artillery is ready. Our men are armed to the teeth and itching for targets and instead, we’re being whittled down to a bloody pulp. How can they afford to sustain this attack for so long? Even the Alliance must have its limitations.”

Sandra Mason shared his frustration, replying, “I don’t know sir but, morale is hitting dangerous levels. There have already been reports of desertions. Every soldier that runs returns to the rear and poisons others with their cowardice. If this artillery doesn’t stop soon, I fear for the continuity of the front line.”

A particularly close artillery shell struck the soil above their underground position. The ground beneath their feet swayed and shook. One of the nearby command staff stumbled and fell upon the planning table in a pile of broken wood, putting the already worthless piece of furniture out of its misery. Vachir and Sandra Mason crossed the room to help the young officer up.

“Are you ok, Lieutenant..”

“Tyler, sir,” the young man replied. “Quintin Tyler. And yes, I’ll be fine, sirs.” He grabbed their hands, hoisting himself out of the disaster that had been their planning table. After brushing himself off and locating his faded blue kepi, he placed it back on his head and saluted the General. “My apologies sir. I’ll locate a replacement planning table immediately.”

Vachir waved away the young man’s apology, “No need Lieutenant. It’s not like we have any new intel to display. This damn fog is making yours and my jobs pretty much moot.”

As a prime of air, Vachir could focus his powers and likely clear much of the fog in the immediate area away, giving them a glimpse at least of the enemy’s movements. But, instinct, forged from many years of trench warfare told him, the bombardment was a prelude to attack. If he expended too much energy early on, he would be useless when the real fighting began.

Days prior, he’d commanded Jim and the twenty other awakened crew of Alia’s Liberator to do the same. Each was placed at strategic points across the line and instructed not to use their powers until the situation became dire. He doubted it would matter much across a hundred kilometer long front line but, every bit would count in the coming battle. They were hopelessly outnumbered after all.

It was frustrating beyond reason. Returning the Lieutenant’s salute, he ordered, “Lieutenant Tyler, make your way to trench forty three and perform an inspection run on our turngun emplacements there. The men need to see officers walking the same trenches; braving the same storm. And remind our automated emplacements, they are not to fire upon enemy infantry. They’re being held for anti air support.”

The young Lieutenant lit up. Despite the crushing depressing of ongoing artillery bombardment, he was eager to impress his commanding officer. With a quick salute, he did an about face and jogged out the partially destroyed entrance to their bunker. Outside, the fire and fury rolled on.

Lieutenant Colonel Mason smiled but, there was sadness in her eyes, “I remember that look, sir. That was me ten years ago.”

Vachir nodded, “Yes. You were quite eager to please too. I remember, you used to bring me a cup of black coffee for every morning briefing. You kept that up for over a year if I recall. Quite a few of the junior staff secretly shared a nickname for you too.”

“Yes sir,” she replied. “Kissass sir. They accused me of trying to win favors with my commanding officer by performing the proverbial kissing of his ass.”

Vachir chuckled, “I don’t recall any ass kissing. Just coffee.”

Sandra grinned, this time, it was genuine, “All due respect sir but, rich, poor, General, or Private. All men’s asses stink. Frankly, you can kiss your own ass sir. Coffee is as far as I go.” They both laughed, happy for the distraction.

Vachir’s face was soon somber again. Grabbing his LC’s arm, he added, “There is one thing I’ve never shared with you Sandra. Something I’ve been keeping inside all of these years and, in light of our situation, I feel you should know. You know in case one of us…”

Sandra interrupted him, “Sir, please don’t. Let’s not ruin professional relationship built on-”

“No no no,” he insisted. “It needs to be said.” The Lieutenant Colonel stared at him. There was concern in her eyes. Her commanding officer was about to make things uncomfortable.

It didn’t stop him though. He had to tell her. “Sandra Mason, my most loyal and trustworthy second. The one who has fought beside me for most of my military career. She who has saved my life on many occasions. There’s something I have to get off my chest.”

He paused for effect. Sandra was white. Vachir smiled and said, “I’ve always hated your coffee.”

They had no right to be happy, surrounded by so much death and despair but, for a moment, two old friends shared a moment of joy and laughter.

***

Private Huntley was miserable. The past few weeks had seen her dragged from one depressing terrain to another. At least the Black Forest was quieter, she thought. Being one of the LC’s chosen few had been an honor of course but, she had been looking forward to her upcoming leave time. That stupid bitch, hidden away somewhere in the south. She had to go and ruin my vacation.

Now, she was ten feet down, hunched over, and trying to catch a moment of sleep amongst the endless thunder of enemy artillery. Next to her, Sergeant Grell cleaned his breech loaded rifle. The shiny weapon stuck out like a sore thumb against his dirty, tattered uniform.

“Sarge,” she asked, annoyed, “Don’t you think, it’s clean enough? I mean, you’ve been polishing that thing nonstop for days.”

Sergeant Grell looked up from his work and smiled. His indomitable good cheer normally set her at ease but here, at the gates of hell itself, it just pissed her off. He had no right to be happy in such a dreary place. At least, that’s how she felt.

As if to agree with her sentiment, the ground suddenly shook as a lucky shell landed one trench over. A short scream and a burst of dirt and blood announced new Federation casualties.

Through a nearby connecting communications trench, Private Huntley watched as a team of medics sprinted by, holding their stretcher at the ready. They were followed closely by more medics and other soldiers. Defeat was written on every man and woman’s face. Huntley shared in their frustration.

The explosion had jostled loose a new layer of dirt from the trench above and onto the Sergeant’s weapon. He returned to his endless polishing and replied, “Say what you will, Private, but when the enemy finally does attack, the sheen on this weapon will blind them.”

Private huntley rolled her eyes and returned to attempting sleep. At least she was at the center of the line. Those poor souls on the banks of Green River were probably sleeping in cold muck.

Suddenly, the thunder stopped.

***

“Shh, listen,” Vachir ordered. Tilting his head, he added, “They’ve stopped.”

Lieutenant Colonel Mason turned and stared out the door of the command bunker. Wisps of smoke continued to crawl lazily through the trenches outside. Soldiers had stopped mid task. Medics froze in place pausing from their hurried evacuation of patients through the narrow trenches. Runners halted their continuous message carrying. Engineers stopped their repair work. Everyone was looking up.

The artillery had ceased its bombardment. That could only mean one thing.

***

Jim sprinted through the trenches. Each step sent splatters of water in every direction as he made his way through the ankle deep water. He still had ten layers of trenching to go before he reached the front. The sound of his own footsteps was foreign. For days, he’d been confined to the relative safety of “bunker 226” located at the rear of the Federation trench system on the far left flank.

Vachir had insisted that Jim remain at the rear until the fighting began. Every one of Alia’s awakened crew members were considered irreplaceable by FedCom and had been tucked away safely at strategic points along the hundred kilometer line, waiting for the real fighting to begin.

Well, this was it. He grabbed his scimitar but decided against bringing a rifle. He was a prime awakened of earth. His weapon was wielded in the mind and soul.

He continued his run to the front line. With each layer of trenching, the water seemed to deepen. This close to the river, it seeped naturally through the ground and muddied up everything. There were as many soldiers carried away with trench foot and lower body infections as there were from wounds.

Finally, he reached the last trench. Soldiers were already beginning to pile in the wooden platforms built against the mud soaked wall. Everyone was attempting to catch a peek of the enemy, the fog, anything. He spotted one of Vachir’s trusted men, Specialist Hartzell.

The man was his usual quiet self, something Jim, being an introvert himself, never undervalued. The specialist’s brown sniper cloak blended almost perfectly with the surrounding soil. Real and artificial blades of grass blended together with caked on mud, giving off the image of a man sized bush.

Jim wouldn’t have seen him if it hadn’t been for the intimidating sniper rifle that hung loosely in the man’s hands. The weapon was longer than standard infantry breech loaded rifles. Attached to the chamber, was a telescoping sight of bronze and glass. Small gears adorned the front and rear of the sight for fine tuning adjustments.

Hartzell’s rifle was one of very few experimental “Bolt Action” rifles. The prototypes had recently been pressed into service and were quickly becoming favorites among Federation snipers. They were deadly accurate and fast firing compared to their breech loaded predecessors. Jim hoped it wouldn’t be another case of “too little too late” as had happened with the Phoenix.

He pushed his way through a thickening layer of curious soldiers and planted himself next to Hartzell who was scanning the fog through his sight. “What do you see?” he asked.

Hartzell sighed and whispered, “Nothing, yet. I suppose I should be thankful. If it weren’t for this layer of fog, I’d only be able to pop up for a second or two without getting my head unceremoniously removed from my shoulders.”

Jim shrugged and replied, “yeah but, it’d be nice to see what we’re...wait. Do you hear that?”

Suddenly, the trench grew quiet as others began to hear it as well. A drumming. Deep deep drumming echoed across the lines. The beats were quiet at first. Subdued. But, as they continued on, their intensity increased. Soon, more drums joined the chorus.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The earth under their feet started to vibrate to the crescendoing sound. Wooden planks, laid to protect the soldiers from the waters at the bottom of the trench shook and rattled with the rising sound, threatening to break loose from their fastenings. The drumming continued for a time until, a new sound joined in.

Boom. HA! Boom. HA! Boom. HA!

Jim knew that sound. Men...thousands of them. Tens of thousands of them. They cheered between each beat. Their voices carried across the battlefield and seemed to push the very air with each shout.

BOOM. HA! BOOM. HA! BOOM. HA!

It was like something out of a nightmare. Men and women, already disheartened by seven days of endless bombardment stared wide eyed at the grey miasma, waiting for their doom to emerge. Some clutched their weapons tightly. Others prayed. Still others shouted curses and obscenities toward the hidden enemy lines.

At once, the drums and voices ceased. The world held its breath.

They didn’t have to wait long. From the void, thousands of trumpets bellowed deep calls. With a mighty shout, the fog dropped and doom approached.

The battle was joined.

***

Lieutenant Quintin Tyler was doing his best to mask the creeping doubt in his heart. He, like the others, had stopped to stare at the wall of fog. The drums and shouts shook him to his core. They would attack at any moment. He would never admit it out loud but, part of him preferred the artillery barrage over what he knew was coming.

The shouts stopped. For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, there was only silence. His knees knocked together involuntarily and his breathing quickened. His entire body tensed as he prepared to face the nightmare. Below him, the trenches stunk of fear.

Looking around at the frightened faces of those around him, he realized, he was the only officer in sight. In this small section of trench, in the center of the Federation line, the troops were looking to him for leadership. He knew what he had to do.

His voice was soft at first. “Soldiers of the Federation, hear me. The enemy approaches. In moments we will be locked into battle...no. This is more than a battle. It’s a fight for our lives. Our homes.” His voice rose as he continued, “No matter what comes through that fog, we will stand our ground. We will not falter. To run would simply delay our deaths another day.”

“I know you’re afraid. So am I. Anyone who says they feel no fear is either insane or a liar. I ask you to stand with me. Find your inner courage. Find that thing worth fighting for. If we run today, the next battle will not be fought in trenches or some empty desert. No, it will be fought in our very homes.”

Lieutenant Tyler pushed the last of his fear downward into a dark corner of his soul. He was prepared to die. In his last days, no man would call him a coward. His voice rang across the throngs of soldiers assembled in the trenches below, “Who will stand with me? Who will face the darkness and send as many Alliance and Holy Land soldiers straight to hell where they belong? Stand with me now! For our homes. For our loved ones. For our freedom! VICTORY!”

In unison, the voices of the soldiers assembled near enough to hear shouted in return.

VICTORY VICTORY VICTORY!

The shouts spread quickly beyond earshot. Soon, from the banks of the Green River to the great Dune Sea, chants of VICTORY filled the air. Across the northern front, men and women found their courage.

The horns sounded. The fog cleared, and there was no turning back.

***

“OPEN FIRE!”

Jim could recall few moments of his life in vivid detail. His awakening, seeing his mother die, the look on Alia’s face as she lay dying on a hillside. Peeking over the trench, what he saw would be burned in his memory forever.

A solid wall of brown clad soldiers stretched from Green River to the northeastern horizon. Even from hundreds of meters away, he could make out the familiar red armbands of Warlord Alliance military. With a shout, they poured over the tops of their trenchline.

They vomited out of the earth like fire ants from a smashed colony - thousands upon thousands of them. Next to Jim, Specialist Hartzell didn’t need to wait. There were more targets than the Federation had bullets. He fired.

Quickly broken of the initial shock, the entire Federation line erupted in gunfire. From end to end, over a hundred kilometers, over two hundred thousand rounds a second cut through the air. All at once, the world was filled with thick vengeful noise. The cacophony of fury drowned out all voices. Many shouted. Many screamed. Many cursed. None were heard.

Waves upon waves of Alliance soldiers continued to pour over the parapets. Walls of blood, bone, and guts erupted across their line. For a brief moment, it seemed the Federation trenchline would hold back the tide. Men fell by the dozens..hundreds...thousands. The gray scarred terrain of no man’s land was soon awash in blood. It pooled in craters left behind by artillery strikes. It flowed in small rivers, splashing as men clattered through it.

Federation fire was furious but, it wasn’t enough. For every ten enemy soldiers felled, an allied soldier would die. Even through the noise, their screams filled the air. Medics rushed in and out of the primary trench through the narrow communication connections, carrying the dead and dying out in order to make room for fresh soldiers.

Jim hid, gripping his scimitar, crouched down below the trench line, waiting for his moment. As he sat, he watched Specialist Hartzell perform his deadly work. He couldn’t see what was happening over the trench but, somehow he knew, each shot was hitting home. How could it not?

The man was an absolute professional. Despite the chaos of noise and horror surrounding him, his hand never wavered. His gaze was fixed. His targets fell, one after the other. The ground shook with the boom of guns and shouts of men but Hartzell was a rock. At the absolute left flank of the northern front, he sat, as a lethal cornerstone to the entire Federation ground force.

Glancing quickly at Jim, he shouted. Jim could hardly hear over the storm of lead. “Jim, hand me my ammo pack, I’m running low on-” His head disappeared behind a spray of blood and brains. Specialist Hartzel was no more.

***

“Where is my damn artillery?” Vachir shouted over the unending earthquake. He grabbed a particularly frightened looking runner and pointed toward the nearest emplacement, “Tell Major Simmons, if he doesn’t start firing, I’ll forgo a court martial and advance him straight to the execution. We have to thin the enemy before our lines are overrun.”

The boy, no older than sixteen nodded and sprinted off down the communication line. Vachir turned to face the oncoming charge. It was time for him to take a more active role in this war.

***

Lieutenant Quintin Tyler watched the battle unfolding across no man’s land. Despite unrelenting fire from the Federation trenches, the tide of manpower had nearly reached the first tier. He clenched the binoculars as he watched through the inch thick glass of the automated turngun emplacement, helpless to stop the tide.

His orders were firm. Only the front line turnguns were to be committed to anti infantry operations. The larger automated variants had been placed in reserve for anti air support.

Below, the fire was so intense, occasional rounds from both sides would intersect across no man’s land and flicker out with a spark.

But there was no enemy air force. Only soldiers. The enormous automated turnguns were being reserved for a threat that may not-

Then, the Federation artillery awoke from its slumber. All at once, thousands of pieces began to expel their ammunition upon the battlefield. Not a moment too soon, he thought to himself as he watched the carnage.

The first Alliance soldiers had reached the Federation lines. Fire from the secondary and tertiary trenches continued but, the front was out of the firefight as men and women dropped their rifles and drew scimitars. The clash of steel was great as the front lines descended into anarchy.

Finally, the first shells reached no man’s land. Alliance soldiers, sprinting, encouraged by their comrades success in the trenches were suddenly erased from existence. The already blood soaked stretch of land erupted in fire and flame. In second, hundreds were obliterated. Many were dying but still, enough were getting through. The front line was falling apart.

Rage welled up in Lieutenant Tyler’s heart. He began to contemplate disobeying a direct order and turning his anti air emplacement on the enemy soldiers. Raising his hand, he nearly gave the command. Then...the cloud arose from its slumber.

***

Jim slammed the surprised Alliance soldier into the wall of the trench. The man exhaled and nearly lost his footing. Before Jim could take advantage, the soldier had already pushed off the wall and charged him. Leaping back, he lifted his scimitar to parry the screaming man’s downward slash. The attack never came though.

The fighter was suddenly and violently thrown sideways by a ball of burning plasma. His body spun out of the trench and landed on the banks of the Green River. Three more fireballs struck soldiers in midair as they leapt down into the trenches to slaughter more of the dwindling Federation numbers. Jim searched for the location of the awakened fire.

“Tahu!” he called. Tahu Rahal was one of the Rahal twins. Jim had met them both briefly back on the Liberator. They were some of the youngest members at seventeen years old. “Where’s Taruh?”

The boy reached Jim and bent over, panting. He held up a finger while he caught his breath. “I’m Taruh. *pant pant* Tahu is about a kilometer northeast *pant pant* down the line.” Taruh shot a hand out, incinerating another unfortunate soldier. His arms were already beginning to blacken.

Jim shook his head and replied, “You shouldn’t be using your powers yet. Vachir wanted us to wait until the situation was desperate.” Another soldier breached the trench. All Federation soldiers were either locked into personal combat or bleeding out on the ground. Taruh raised a hand to attack again but, Jim pushed the boy down.

Leaping toward the soldier, Jim thrust his scimitar at the man’s stomach. His blow was parried but, not quick enough as his bloodied weapon tore a long red gash from the man’s bellybutton to his left lung. Jim capitalized on the soldier’s shock and landed a final blow on his neck. With a spray of blood, the Alliance soldier’s throat gurgled as he fell sideways, clutching his neck.

Taruh stood up and brushed himself off. Still panting, he patted Jim on the arm, “Thanks for that. Were both going to need our power for what’s still coming.”

Jim furrowed his brow and asked, “What’s coming?”

“That,” Taruh replied dryly. His finger was pointing north, behind the enemy lines. Jim turned and saw it. An enormous black cloud was rising. It moved too fast to be natural. For a moment, the left flank was holding. Jim turned his attention from the battle and strained his eyes.

He heard it before he saw it. The cloud wasn’t a cloud at all. They were enemy fighters, tens of thousands of them and, they were approaching...fast. Their dire situation was now hopeless. Darker shadows bobbed and shifted behind the tangle of incoming aircraft. It took Jim a moment to realize what he was seeing. They were airships. Dozens of them. Bigger than any he’d ever seen.

He’d waited long enough. It was time to use his powers.