A light blue glow dimly illuminated the general, exposing a face contorted into a light frown, hidden slightly by a primly pruned beard. A light frown that further increased his aging wrinkles. An age that could not be easily discerned through the highly polished beard and its black luster.

The general tapped with one thick finger on the metal console, showing him a scene of a landscape illuminated in blue. A landscape that, in reality, was probably yellow and red, brownish and bright. For he stared at a hologram of a desert landscape. A desert landscape far, far below him.

An automatic door opened behind the general, and a corporal quickly walked in with a standing salute. The corporal stared absently up into nothing as he waited for the generals recognition or dismissal.

The general didn’t turn around, already peeved as he was, taking what little pleasure he could garner from making the colonel wait on what could only be an important message.

Instead, he continued tapping at the metal console, staring down on the landscape as if searching for that one sock that always went missing. Searching for answers.

On the hologram, there were several symbols of varies meanings. Logistics, troops, civilians, rebels and on and on. All easily readable, showing numbers and arrows, going from hither to dither, defensive symbols and attacking. A console readily available for him to peruse in a moment’s notice. He stared down at it and at what his army was currently doing.

Squashing rebels they were trying to. Doing so rather poorly.

He tapped one final time before breathing out deeply. Speaking up a second later in a low, commanding voice.

“I dearly hope you are here to bring me good news, corporal.”

“I’m afraid not, milord.”

The corporal responded quickly, stopping his salute as he moved up beside the general. The corporal motioned towards the console in a way that he gestured for the general’s permission. Permission granted as the general leaned back, back onto his authentic earth leather chair.

The corporal nodded and started typing something quickly into the consol. Seconds later, a new symbol appeared on the map. The symbol of “unknown”, with the caveat of a hundred, too two hundred strong. An arrow showed what appeared to be its likely heading, heading for his army. What that meant, he turned towards the corporal for answers, brows turning more narrowed, as this could be nothing but bad news. Terrible news.

“Milord, a trusted source has informed us of enemy sightings to the south-south-east of our main defensive force. The numbers were vague, but the source estimated between one hundred too two hundred enemy personal strong.”

“Estimated?”

“Yes milord. According to our source, when they came within a mile of the enemy forces’ estimated position, they were quickly spotted and pursued. Barely made it out alive if not for the rear-guard action of two men.”

“Our men? Not mercenaries?”

“Yes milord.”

The general quietly contemplated as he gently stroked his beard, staring down at the hologram of the “unknown” enemy combatants.

“Make sure the two men get a hero’s burial, and medals of gallantry above and beyond the call of duty.”

The corporal bowed slightly, stopping mid bow as the general spoke more.

“That’ll keep the men’s morale high. And make sure the source for the intel gets properly compensated... Hmm, a promotion would sit well, I think.”

The corporal nodded in his bow, slowly standing up straight and staring out at nothing, waiting for dismissal. Having to wait for an unknown amount of time as the general grew thoughtful, brooding.

A low murmur echoed out of the general’s mouth, too low to be heard and the corporal quickly asked.

“Sorry general, what was that?”

The general glanced up at the corporal before stating his mind.

“I am simply stating facts to myself. I’m assuming they had trucks with them?”

“Our source could not say, but that is to be expected- as you so expertly deduced. We are in a desert, after all. The troops will need food and water on the march.”

“Yes exactly. Therefore, we can conclude that we are not looking at a force of two hundred strong caravan. They would not have the firepower to keep a lookout that could hunt down one of our scouting parties, nor would they want to.”

The general tapped a few more times on the table, using several fingers as a rhythm started thrumming out.

“I believe we are dealing with a far larger force. Four hundred too five hundred strong, maybe, might be bigger. And I strongly suspect they are carrying with them heavy gunnery, presumably heavy vehicles. It would explain their tight watch. Maybe even some sort of secret weapon.”

He paused again, eyes narrowing to a slit as he stared down at the “unknown” symbol, morphing it into one of “enemy forces” symbol, with numbers of 400 to 500 strong, changed by the corporal beside him.

“What I can’t say for sure is if they are merely reinforcements, a heavily armed caravan bringing very important stuff, or attacking our positions. All three possibilities are not good to neglect.”

The general said as he stood up, moving with elegant and determined steps towards yet another console. This one smaller with a view more zoomed in on his own troops, on his army. Troops spread out over a vast area, far too few for such a feat.

He had spread them out in a defensive half-moon, with most of the defensives pointing towards what he had, in the beginning of his rebelling-stomping campaign, assumed to be the rebels’ headquarters.

Of course, he quickly learned his mistake, as the entire planet seemed to be in open rebellion. And a measly thousand company strong battleship with a hundred men in each company would clearly not be enough to recapture an entire planet worth of rebels.

Especially when said rebels were well armed, well informed and highly trained militias that numbered in the tens, if not hundreds of thousands. Constantly bombarding his positions, constantly attacking nightly and daily, using guerrilla tactics and brutal outmaneuvering to always stay one step ahead. Turning a hundred thousand of his strong men into but seventy thousand and still losing numbers by the day.

How their position hadn’t already been overrun could be considered a minor miracle of its own.

He stared out over his armies defensive perimeter, weakened in many places, stronger in others. Faults he’d already sent orders to fix, merely waiting for said fixes to materialize, or fail, as they often seemed to do on this dreadful planet.

Without turning around, he spoke up to the corporal.

“Which companies do we have in reserve?”

“We have the 776;th, the 437;th and the 501;th. The rest of the 800;th, the 234;th and the 903;rd are also available, but are in the moment, at very low combat readiness due to a lack of competent commanders or lacking in numbers.”

The general mulled over those words, staring at the position of said companies. Each and everyone of them placed in strategically important positions, waiting to plug gaps that might happen in the daily combats taking place all over his defensive lines.

He pondered the information, staring down at his army.

“Any words on reinforcement?”

“Not yet, milord.”

The corporal responded quickly, standing a respectful distance away as the general listened. Listened intently as something seemed to, snap, within him.

Literally as well.

The general slammed his fist down on the small console in front, breaking its fragile glass frame with his sudden rage, fuming and breathing out a violent and not too common word.

“Fuck!”

He let the anger consume him for no longer than a few seconds. Quickly realising, quickly raising up to a straight posture, composing himself as he gently stroked his beard and pulled off his hat, exposing a bald head that practically shined. Without turning around, he spoke in a soft tone.

“Ahem. Excuse my ill temper, it would seem I’m rather stressed at the moment.”

Turning around, the general stared with glowing green eyes down on the corporal as he spoke with a tinge of ice in his voice.

“Make sure that no one learns of my ill temper, corporal.”

The corporal didn’t react in any way, a face full of calm indifference as he quickly bowed and responded with a simple.

“Of course, milord.”

The general nodded, putting back his hat and turned towards another console, bigger and made of metal. He glanced at the symbols strewn around and pondered for no longer than a minute.

“It would seem the rebels have given me no choice. We will have to call in our Varangian guards. All our Varangian guards.”

Still in his bow, the corporal’s eyes reacted, opening slightly while he held his bow. Out of sight, the corporal quickly resumed his mask of indifference before standing up tall. He cleared his throat before asking.

“Ahem, what will the mission parameters be?”

“Search and destroy. All enemy combatants shall be eliminated, or routed.”

The general spoke quickly, gesturing for the corporal to “get to it” as he sat down and resumed his pondering. Absentmindedly, the general pushed a few buttons and the symbol over the five hundred strong force received a red-cross over it.

The corporal, though, he didn’t move. Instead, he remained. Torn between speaking up or not.

“Milord, if I may be so bold.”

The corporal decided to be bold. And the general stiffened ever so slightly, but didn’t move as he, after a tense second, nodded.

“I think it would be a waste to send all three of our Varangian guards. Instead, I would suggest you only send two. Of importance being that one of the two is- 00178.”

“178? Why?”

The general turned around with a peculiar expression, both curious and mildly peeved. No, not peeved. Unamused. The corporal was quick to respond.

“Yes milord, if we send two we will have one in reserve for-“

“I could easily conclude that, corporal. Having one in reserve to reverse a poor fortune is what every general craves for in any situation. If you dare think that I’ve not already assumed such when I decided to send in all of our Varangian’s, I truly hope you are ready for frontline duty, or something far, far worse, corporal.”

The general said with venom in his voice, booming and proud. He loomed up and over the corporal, even as they stood several meters from one another.

The corporal stared bravely forward. Not an inch of his face contorted into an expression, staying perfectly neutral, except for the singular bead of sweat forming on his brow.

“Milord, I would never dare to think such.”

The general took a step closer to the corporal.

“Then please, enlighten me why 178 is so important that I would risk two Varangian’s instead of guaranteeing a mission with three?”

The corporal stood still for but a moment, before moving his hand back and pulling out a handheld console. Walking up to the general while swiping through several files in quick succession, he spoke raptly.

“I would assume milord already knows this, but a normal Varangian has a mission success rate of approximately eighty percent, give or take.”

The corporal came within striking distance of the general and swiftly handed him his handheld console. The general grabbed it and looked down on the file at the front, reading while continuing to listen to the corporals speech.

“And as you also would know, is that even if a Varangian fails their mission, they will always have done considerable damage to whatever their mission entailed. Which, if I may, could in some ways also be considered a success when you factor in that these failed missions almost only happen once a Varangian knows the mission will result in their death. In short, they only fail in order to guarantee their own survival. They only fail when they’ve been given an impossible mission.”

The general nodded absentmindedly to the corporals speech, listening but not really as he already knew all of this. Then his eyes read the file fully. A file about 00178. A file that should not be, as it was simply, too. Perfect.

“As you might see though, milord. This doesn’t seem to be a consideration with 00178, as he has a one hundred percent mission success rate. Why that is, I can’t say. But that he has something that the other Varangian’s lack, is very apparent.”

Something within the generals’ eyes seemed to glow, glow as if a fire churned within his head. He nodded, nodded several times as the gears turned. His eyes spotted an oddity, spotted two- three within 00178’s file. And asked about the first.

“Say, what’s this, “uppskeri af hel” thing that the file refers too?”

“That’s his, ehm, nickname milord. It’s an ancient nickname that refers to a very, very- very ancient god. I think it means the reaper of death, or “hels chosen” as most of the soldiers would say.”

The general’s mind worked overtime, strategies and tactics, possibilities and opportunities flying around within his head. Thoughts that brought a tiny smile onto his face, partially hidden by his immaculate beard.

“Very good, very good, corporal. I want this nickname to be spread even further around the army. And per your recommendation, we shall only send two Varangians. One of them will, of course, have to be our very own hels chosen. Also, I want a team of twelve from 501;th to record the Varangians’ actions and be their pickup after the success of the mission.”

The corporal visibly breathed out, freezing as he, himself, noticed and quickly bowed to cover it up.

“As is your command, milord.”

Then quickly moved to walk away. Stopped by a finger of the general as he looked deep into the corporal’s eyes.

“Oh, and corporal. If I hear that any of this was NOT my command, but the idea of one of my subordinates. I would assume you know what happens.”

The general said to the corporal, staring with utmost confidence into the corporal’s eyes. The corporal responded by immediately bowing once more, then saluting with a shout.

“Yes milord!”

Before being gestured to leave, dismissed as he fled the officers’ quarter. The general stared after the corporal, stared as the door opened and closed. Then turned to look back on the handheld console, looking as if disbelieving what he was reading.

His smile grew ever bigger. For he knew not how, only that he had been given an invaluable card, capable of killing rogue AIs by themselves. A gold nugget even bigger than the diamond in the rough.

With the slight caveat that the nugget always, always, seemed to come back with injuries.

A peculiarity that he simply shrugged off as a sacrifice one had to make to be the best, before sitting down with one weight less on his shoulder.