Saga We Mortal Engines I Chapter 1 I (OC's)

We Mortal Engines

Infernon, an industrial moon in the outer rim, has seen some of the most intense fighting since the start of the Clone Wars. It’s scarred and barren surface has become the burial ground for thousands of clone troopers.

When clone medic Ragnar and his battalion arrive, fresh from training, they find a garrison weary from constant battle, led by Jedi Padawan Cam Tolar, a boy grieving the loss of his master and struggling to cope with the pressure of watching the men under his command killed one by one. Without medical supplies or rations men die of starvation and minor wounds.

Very soon Ragnar finds himself questioning his purpose as a soldier as he and his brothers come to realise that the only way to escape their suffering is to die and have their bones ground into the mud and ash beneath their feet.

Chapter 1 - Combat Drop

The scarred wasteland of Infernon lay beneath a cloud of polluted dust. Occasional breaks in the smog revealed the craters left by orbital bombardment and once vast cities reduced to rubble. Ash and smoke hung in the air, drifting across barren mountain ranges while high above the poisoned atmosphere the Venator class warship Deliverance prepared itself for war.

In the massive ship’s ventral hanger bay, Ragnar stared down at the desolate landscape. He tried to pick out major landmarks, mentally trying to figure out which part of the planet they were orbiting based on the topographical maps he had studied on the journey. Those maps were out of date, he decided. A year of conflict had ravaged the surface of the industrial moon, and soon the haze closed over, hiding it from sight.

He turned and looked at the faces of the men around him, or rather at the single face that they all shared. Each clone wore the same expression, one of focussed determination. There was no fear in the faces of his brothers, despite the fact that this would be their first taste of actual combat. For years they had trained, honing themselves into the perfect soldiers, the ultimate killing machines.

Ragnar licked his lips. Yes, they had trained for this, but there was still something niggling at the back of his mind. Not fear, only the knowledge that some of these men, the brothers he had grown up with, trained alongside and come to think of as merely an extension of his own consciousness, were about to have their lives snuffed out.

‘Final check!’

The coarse voice of the Battalion Sergeant-Major rang across the docking bay. Ragnar had checked and rechecked every piece of equipment at least a dozen times in the past hour but he obeyed, tapping his ammo pouches, confirmed that the gas cartridge was functioning and rummaging through his pack to make sure everything was where it should be. Satisfied, he hoisted the pack onto his shoulders. Like the troopers around him his white armour bore the tan-coloured flashes of his regiment, the 782nd, but unlike his brothers he also wore the emblem of a company medic and instead of extra ammunition and detonators or explosives like his brothers his pack contained laser-scalpels, bandages, bacta patches and a host of other medical equipment.

‘All units prepare for combat drop.’ This time the voice echoing out of speakers mounted throughout the hanger belonged to the Deliverance’s captain. Taking one last look at the moon below, Ragnar stepped aboard a waiting LAAT gunship. The landing craft shuddered under his feet as the pilot powered up the engines. Glancing down he noticed Dizzy still obsessively checking his rifle.

‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ he said.

Dizzy looked up at him, his face breaking into a crooked smile which didn’t quite mask the nerves he was feeling. ‘Sorry Ragnar. I can’t help it.’

Crouching down, Ragnar thumped his shoulder. ‘We’ll be fine. Just like the simulations. One man…’

‘But the right man for the job.’ Dizzy finished the well-known clone mantra.

The rest of 1st platoon were silent as they waited for the order to drop. Although they had studied the charts and intel on the combat arena below, every scrap of training had taught them that no amount of simulated battle could prepare them for the real thing.

‘One minute to drop.’

Ragnar felt a nudge on his arm. He turned to see Sgt Weps grinning at him, his eyes bright with excitement. He held his DC-15A rifle casually across his chest, finger resting on the trigger guard, and Ragnar could sense the adrenaline pumping through his squad leader. He felt it too. His ears ached with the blood pounding in his ears and he gripped the straps of his pack tight to stop his hands from shaking.

‘Thirty seconds.’

The side doors of the gunship slid closed and locked with a hiss. Ragnar slipped his helmet on. The Separatist anti-aircraft batteries on the surface would easily pick off any ships attempting a drop within the atmosphere, so they would be dropping directly from orbit. Acclamator class assault ships and frigates would accompany them to soak up the heavy ground fire and allow the gunships to slip through to the planet below. Interference had prevented any kind of regular communications with the Republic forces on the surface, but their last report stated they were badly in need of supplies and reinforcements.

A single red light cast a dim glow over the clones huddled inside the gunship’s belly. The blank faceplates of his brother’s helmets belied no emotion but Ragnar felt the anticipation in the air. This was what they had been born for.

‘Steady lads,’ said Weps.

‘Ten seconds.’

Ragnar braced himself, wrapping his fingers around a support strap hanging from the ceiling. He hoped none of his brothers could tell that his heartrate had increased. It felt like it was hammering against the inside of his chest-plate, trying to escape from his ribcage.

‘Drop.’

Ragnar’s stomach gave a jolt as the gunship plummeted through the open docking hatch and dove towards the moon. His grip on the strap tightened as gravity snatched greedily at the craft, dragging it downwards. The engines bellowed, fighting to control the gunship’s descent. From outside he heard a roar and he imagined flames licking at the hull as they tore through the upper atmosphere. The craft shuddered, lurching as they hit pockets pf super-hot air. He banged shoulders with the clones standing beside him.

The ship jerked as the wing-mounted laser cannons opened fire. Ragnar’s hand twitched involuntarily towards the blaster holstered at his hip. Clone training had taught him to act during combat, to be proactive, but in the cramped hold there was nothing he or his brothers could do except wait and hope they made it to the ground in one piece.

Outside he heard the distinctive whine of a vulture droid skim close to the hull spitting laser-fire and he held his breath, waiting for the shock of an impact, but the gunship’s heavy cannons barked and he heard an explosion. Shrapnel pinged off the hull and he pictured the burning remains of the droid fighter spiralling towards the ground.

Someone punched his shoulder and he looked round to see Dizzy tapping his helmet. Instantly Ragnar understood his brother and cursed himself for being so stupid. There was a way he could find out what was going on out there. Reaching down he tuned his comm unit into the battalion frequency. A melee of voices belonging to squadron leaders, gunship pilots and the officers on board their escort ships bellowed over the comm channel:

‘…ulture droids on your tail Alpha-5… There’s too many of them… Frigate group, concentrate fire on those stationary guns… ARC-fighter groups, tri fighters coming in at mark two-ten!... hit on our starboard engine, I can’t hold…’

BOOM.

Ragnar flinched as the last voice was cut off and outside, far too close, he heard the sound of a hip exploding. The jumble of voices painted a vivid picture of the battle outside. Ragnar almost felt he could see the swarms of vulture droids spitting laser fire at the assault group and the flash of anti-ship batteries firing from the moon below.

‘…Green Leader, bring your fighters around to support the Errant Dawn… Roger Gold Leader, moving to intercept… evasive manoeuvres!... argh!... Delta-9 hit, we’re going down… All hands abandon ship, I repeat, all hands abandon…’

The force of the explosion threw Ragnar off his feet. He landed in a heap of armoured arms and legs and blaster rifles. One of their Acclamator escort ships had been destroyed. He shut off the comm to drown out the captain’s screams. Sgt Weps helped him to his feet. The gunship pitched and from close by came the sound of artillery turbolasers streaking past.

‘The drop-zone’s hot,’ called the pilot.

‘Alright men, this is it,’ came the voice of Lt. Mane, Ragnar’s platoon leader. ‘Sound off.’

’36 okay.’

‘35 okay.’

34 okay.’

One by one the platoon counted down, following a drill they had rehearsed hundreds of times in simulated drops. But this time it was the real thing. He looked around at the men in his platoon. He had known them all his life, grown up with them so that he could tell each trooper simply by the way they held their weapon or the motion of their running. Pol stood by the armoured hatch, sharing a joke with Anchor, the squad’s demolitions expert and most level-headed clone in the A-company. Standing at his shoulder were Bo and Helm, company technicians, and on his other side Oskar was fidgeting with the straps on his backpack. Some of these men, his brothers, would die today. Ragnar drew his blaster and flicked off the safety catch. He glanced at Dizzy who was obsessively checking his ammo pouches again.

‘Good luck brother,’ said Dizzy.

Ragnar nodded. The gunship banked and he felt the repulsor jets kick in, slowing their descent, and he braced himself for landing.

The gunship hit the ground, the impact almost dislocating Ragnar’s arm. He gripped the overhead strap as the ship bounced and came to rest. Blaster fire peppered the starboard hatch like red-hot rain.

‘Go, go, go!’ shouted Weps. The port side door slid back and Ragnar leapt out. The filters in his helmet adjusted for the light but after the dimness of the hold he blinked a few times before his vision acclimated. The drop-zone was in a wide plaza, and nearby he could see the jagged shapes of buildings gutted by orbital bombardment and artillery fire. The rest of their battalion’s gunships dotted the plaza, their hulls pitted with scorch marks from laser fire. Looking up he saw that the port turret of his craft had been split open by shrapnel. The gunner inside had been torn apart and hung limply in his harness, a mass of blood and pulped flesh.

A curtain of red blaster bolts raked the ground, throwing up plumes of dust and ash around Ragnar’s feet. He dropped to a crouch and levelled his rifle. Battle-droids were advancing from the eastern quadrant of the plaza, firing at the newly-arrived troops. Behind them tanks hovered, using the streets for cover.

Squeezing the trigger, Ragnar let off a stream of fire at the approaching droid line. A hail of blue energy spat from the muzzle and a battle-droid went down. Ragnar smiled to himself. Just like in the simulations. The rest of his platoon were huddled around the gunship , using its hull as cover and firing into the massed ranks of the droid army. Overhead he heard the dull roar as an approaching gunship fired a pair of missiles at a Separatist tank.

‘Trooper down!’

Ragnar ducked back behind the gunship, letting Dizzy move in to take his place, and looked around for the injured clone.

‘Medic!’

He saw Sgt Weps waving at him and sprinted to the rear of the ship. More blaster fire was pouring in from the north-east now, and he glimpsed a column of grey-clad super battle droids pour into the plaza, their arm-mounted cannons spitting death into the clone ranks.

Crouching down beside the sergeant he saw that the injured clone was Lt. Mane. There was a hole the size of a fist in his chest-plate and blood was seeping out of the joints in his armour. Bending over, he eased off the lieutenant’s helmet and felt at his neck for a pulse, but found nothing. Looking up at Sgt Weps he shook his head. Weps swore.

An explosion forced Ragnar to his knees. The tanks had opened fire on a nearby gunship. The craft came apart in a blaze of white light and super-heated metal fragments. The clones sheltering behind it were torn apart, shredded by shrapnel. A moment later the gunship’s missiles detonated, causing a secondary explosion which killed any remaining survivors.

‘Frag this,’ said Sgt Weps. ‘I’m not getting any response from company HQ.’

‘Perhaps they were shot down,’ said Ragnar.

‘Maybe. It doesn’t matter, we need to get out of this death-trap. 1st squad, provide supressing fire. Everyone else make for the buildings on the west side of the plaza. Use the gunships for cover.’

The platoon moved as one, first squad pouring fire at the droids while the rest of the platoon dashed from gunship to gunship, making for the safety of the buildings. Raising his weapon, Ragnar squeezed off a burst of blaster bolts. It hardly mattered where he aimed. The droid ranks were so thick he was certain to hit something, but for every droid that went down a new one stepped in to take its place. Beside him he heard the rumble as Anchor opened up with his Z-6 rotary cannon.

‘Trooper down!’

Ragnar turned and saw Oskar lying on the ground holding his arm. He dashed towards him.

‘Let me see.’

He unclipped Oskar’s pauldron and scanned the wound. The blaster bolt had shattered Oskar’s humerus and caused massive bleeding. He plucked a tool from his utility belt and held it to the wound, spraying bio-foam into the gash to prevent blood loss. Besides that and easing the pain there wasn’t anything more he could do.

‘Is it bad Ragnar?’ said Oskar through gritted teeth.

‘Bad enough. I’ll get you back on the gunship.’

Oskar slapped his hand away. ‘No, I’m fine. Just patch me up, I’ll be okay.’

‘If you don’t get to a surgeon soon you’re gonna lose your arm, now get back on the fragging ship!’

Oskar looked like he was going to argue but his face twisted with pain and he must have realised that there was no way he could fight. ‘I can’t just abandon you all,’ he said.

‘You’re not, trust me, there’ll still be some clankers left when you get back,’ said Ragnar. He threw an arm around the clone and helped him back through the gunship’s hatch. ‘Here let me give you something for the pain.’

‘No.’ Oskar waved his uninjured arm. ‘I’ll be back on the ship soon, you’ll need it more than me.’

‘Take care brother.’

‘Save some droids for when I get back.’

Ragnar nodded and ran back to his position. Weps ducked behind the hull to reload and Ragnar skidded to a stop next to him.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s out of it. Needs a proper medical facility.’

Weps punched the side of the ship in frustration. ‘There’s just too damn many of them. Where the hell is our air support?’

Ragnar glanced up. Through the swirling smoke he saw an Acclimator cruiser banking in the sky, plumes of fire winking across its hull. A squadron of ARC fighters streaked past, weaving to avoid the torrent of fire spitting from Vulture droids.

‘They look pretty busy. We need to fall back.’ said Ragnar, looking around at the huddled members of his squad. ‘Find better cover.’

‘I hate running away from a fight but you’re right.’ said Weps. ‘Damn it we’re supposed to have covering fire from the garrison in this sector, where the hell are they?’

Ragnar heard the catch of fear in the sergeant’s voice. Weps was as dependable as any clone in A-company but this was his first combat and it wasn’t going to plan.

‘We need to get moving!’ Ragnar cast a look around at the rest of the platoon. ‘If we stay here we’ll be slaughtered. With Lt Mane dead you’re in command. You’re the 1st sergeant Weps, you need to lead the men out of here.’

Weps grunted and pulled himself to his feet. ‘Alright. 1st platoon, lay down suppressing fire, the rest of you make for the west side of the plaza. Move!’

Ragnar led his squad in a dash towards the smoking remains of the exploded gunship. After making a cursory check to ensure there were no survivors, they sprinted across the plaza, sending controlled bursts of fire towards the advancing droids. The gunships were beginning to take off, sheeting down laser fire onto the droids to cover the battalion’s retreat. High overhead the Acclamator assault ships were firing on what Ragnar guessed were artillery batteries. A squadron of vulture droids swept over the plaza, spitting death.

The run to the buildings became a blur of dodging laser bolts and firing. Ragnar worked automatically, aim, fire, run. Aim, fire, run. His training took over. He and his squad operated as a single entity, covering each other to reload, not requiring verbal communication, simply sensing each other’s intentions and responding.

Somehow they all made it to the cover of the buildings without sustaining any casualties. Ragnar threw himself to the ground as a blast from one of the droid tanks lanced over his head and exploded against the side of a building. Rubble and shattered stone rained into the street, throwing up a great surge of dust. The red and blue blaster fire flashed through the dust over his head. In a frightening way, it was beautiful.

A grumble signalled the last of the gunships taking off. Ragnar watched the ship he had arrived in rise into the air, turning the dust into a vortex of swirling cloud. A bolt of red lightning struck the ship’s back quarter, obliterating the starboard weapons pod and one of the engines. The gunship listed in mid-air as the pilot fought to maintain control but a missile smashed into the hull and the craft exploded.

‘Oskar…’ said Ragnar, his breath catching in his throat.

The stricken gunship fell to the earth, nothing more than a crumpled flaming shell of metal. Ragnar felt the impact through the duracrete paving slabs. A plume of smoke rose from the wreckage. He started to climb over the barricade but a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

‘Are you crazy?’ screamed Dizzy.

‘Oskar’s out there.’

‘He’s dead,’ said Weps. ‘Nothing could survive that.’

Ragnar stared at the downed transport, searching for any hint of survivors but within the shattered hull all the only movement was the devouring flames.

‘What the kriff are we doing here? Where’s the rallying point?’ shouted Dizzy.

‘I don’t think there is one,’ said Weps.

Through the clearing smoke and dust Ragnar saw the droid lines. They marched towards the clones, not slowing or faltering. There was nothing they could do to halt their advance. The crimson tide of the battle-droids fire would overwhelm the clones, even if every man destroyed a hundred droids there would still be thousands more to take their place. They were going to die.

From somewhere behind him, Ragnar heard the snap-hiss of an energy weapon. He spun, bringing his blaster up and found himself staring at a figure wearing a tattered and mud-splattered brown robe, holding a blue-white energy blade, which the numbed archives of his mind only vaguely recognised as a lightsaber.

A Jedi.