Chapter 02 - In Absentia

Ryke peeled himself out of the Hunter-Killer cockpit, feeling tension unwind from his nerves as the neural load of piloting the war machine was lifted from him. Connected to the mech through the tight black mesh of the link skin that covered him from ankle to throat, he eased himself loose, limb by limb. The feeling of indestructibility was left behind in the armoured shell.

The front armour split open, mechanisms hissing as the thick plates retracted to let the light and noise of Stamm Basin's main hangar cascade down onto him.

The largest military base in the southern hemisphere, Stamm Basin was constructed in the base of a long dried out lake bed, dominating a huge portion of Brekka's eastern quarter. Ryke clambered out into the organised chaos, where massive equipment haulers rumbled between the gridiron arrangement of tramlines that threaded through the whole structure. Engines thundered and voices clamoured, the heat of welding torches and burning fuel turning the vast space into a veritable sauna.

He mounted the exit ladder and slid down to the hangar floor, where he found a familiar figure waiting for him. Ivy stood with a large data slate locked in the crook of her arm, checking over the readings of his Hunter-Killer. Her slim form was swamped by her grey Engineering Cadre overalls and her brown hair was swept back, held in place by a headband to keep it out of her face while working. She looked up, but the smile he'd expected wasn't there.

When they'd joined Brekka's armies they'd been friends, Ryke applying for the Hunter-Killer Corp, while Ivy took her formidable talents to the city's engineers. The war had made them more than friends – a lot more. Normally she was a powder-keg of irrepressible energy, but right now she had a thoroughly grim expression on her face.

"Corporal Shanklin." Ryke gave her a lazy salute after dismounting the ladder, hoping to quickly disperse whatever cloud was hanging over her. "Something up with my rig?"

"No, no, she's running at full capacity," Ivy replied glancing across the hangar distractedly. "All readings in the green."

"Then... do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

"What's wrong? Sure, I'll tell you what's wrong," she muttered, swiping a finger across the data slate and looking him in the eye. "Those northers just added about a million extra shifts for every wrench dragger in uniform."

Ryke winced. "Ah, you stuck with billeting them?"

"On top of everything else around here." She huffed, letting the slate hang in one hand. "Sorry, not your fault. It's just I'm already pulling doubles with all the rebuilding work, and now this?"

"I can imagine."

"What are they even doing here? Last time I checked we were all enjoying a little bit of peacetime."

"Well, they didn't pack for a holiday, that's for sure." Ryke signed, scratching idly at seam where his metal jaw met his skin.

Ivy snorted. "You can say that again. We barely have the space to pack them in. We've had to set up spillover hangars, repurpose repair bays – Riverlords, we've even had to move some of our mechs into storage inside mammoths. It's crazy."

"I'll find out," he told her. "There's a briefing at the Forge this afternoon – all officers required. I'm guessing that's when we'll get a meet and greet with the new faces and find out why they dragged themselves all this way."

She nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but a bleep from her data slate interrupted her and yanked her eyes down again. She scanned it for a moment.

"Drown me," she muttered.

"More good news?"

"I gotta go." Ivy sighed and glanced around quickly. Then she pressed up onto her tiptoes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Stay sane," he warned.

Her smile came back then and she stifled laugh, giving him a mischievous look. "I promise nothing, sergeant." She stepped back from him and raised a clenched fist high, looking down the line of Cadre technicians tasked with checking over HK-Rupture upon arrival. "Wrap it up people!" she roared, her gritty, high-pitched voice rising with frightening force over the clang and growl of the hangar. "New guests to welcome in bay A30 so pack up your troubles and grab a tram!"

Then she was off, other engineers drawing to her as though magnetised. Moments later she and her companions bundled onto one of the open-topped trams that criss-crossed the hangar bays in a huge gridiron arrangement, ferrying engineers and equipment as quickly as possible. A grind of metal on metal keened through the air and the tram shot off, taking Ivy with it.

Ryke sucked in a deep breath. Today was turning out to be a very strange day.

He turned from his Hunter-Killer and cast his eyes over his squad as they clambered from their own machines, exchanging good-natured barbs and trading theories over the arrival of the forces from the north. Preese, Thaye, Brigg and Scantlin formed the core of HK-Rupture, having been piloting alongside Ryke back in their days as rookies, before they'd earned callsigns and a squad of their own. Inevitable losses had mounted through the war, though, and steady stream of replacements had trickled into their ranks as their friends died around them.

Norville 'Sprocket' Bankspur was the longest serving pilot of any of them, but he'd never wanted a squad of his own. A stolid workhorse of a pilot, he had been transferred into HK-Rupture after the attrition of his former unit. The younger replacements – Kim, Marylee and Koral – had joined in time to fight through the siege of Brekka with him. These were eight pilots that he knew and trusted.

That left one.

Ryke loped across the bay to the end of the line, to where Brody 'Mallet' Gowler had just finished extracting himself from the squad's second Goliath mech. A year younger than Ryke, the kid had been transferred to HK-Rupture, one of two survivors after his untested rookie squadron had been mauled during the battle of Brekka. A rangy kid with dark brown skin and a fuzz of black hair over his scalp, Brody came to them as damaged goods – a skilled pilot but shell-shocked from the brutality of his trial by fire.

The hope was that Ryke and his companions could bring Brody out the other side in one piece. Good pilots were at a premium right now after the casualties suffered during the siege, and the commanders were leaving no-one behind. So far, in the relative calm of the aftermath he seemed to be adjusting well enough, but Ryke made a point of checking in nonetheless.

"How's she handling?" he asked brightly, nodding to the towering hulk of the Goliath. It stood almost a full meter taller than the standard Riot Pattern variant, with thick legs, an enormous mounted shoulder cannon, and a set of supports currently folded in behind the waist section that could be deployed to anchor the mech in place.

"Handles like new," Brody replied, grinning a pearly grin. "Though she needs put through her paces properly." An awkward shrug. "Only so much the training field can give me."

Ryke nodded, motioning him to walk as they set off after the rest of the squad. "I wouldn't be wishing for it too soon."

"Well, with the northers kicking down the door, don't you think we're in for it sooner than you think?"

"Maybe." They turned right through the Hunter-Killer bays, moving out into the main hangar where long rows of Scout Cadre skiffs stood propped on scaffolds as engineers crawled over their hulls. Further ahead in the distance, however, he spotted the first columns of the new arrivals, having wound their way through Brekka to their billets in Stamm Basin. A column of armoured vehicles moved in a two by two formation, ushered along by members of the Engineering Cadre wielding bright signalling bars to direct them. Voices and the growl of engines echoed down the hanger.

"You really think they came all this way to just sit in Brekka?" Brody muttered, his head tracking the grumbling column of tanks as it crawled by.

"No, Brody, I don't," Ryke replied, casting a wary eye over the northern soldiers. "And I'm going to find out for sure."

*

The mood in the Forge's cavernous amphitheatre was tense. A broad arc of solid metal-framed seats looked inward on a raised stage where a dozen figures waited, conversing quietly as the lower ranks filed in. Bulbous ceiling lights blared down on them and the thrum of air conditioning units mingled with the mumble of chatter.

Ryke couldn't shake a nagging sense of suspicion as he took his seat with the other Brekkan soldiers. The Hunter-Killers lounged in a group to the left of the stage.

Nearby officers from the other branches of Brekka's military formed close-knit groups: coarse-skinned and grim-faced men and women in the jet black of the Scout Cadre, along with senior captains of Brekka's civil militia units marked out by their grey-blue fatigues. There were over fifty men and woman representing all walks of life in the city, but they were outnumbered by the officers of the northern cities.

Filling up the opposite side of the seating ark were crisply uniformed men and women from the army that had arrived on their doorstep. Different squadrons and regiments were marked out in a garish kaleidoscope of colour that Ryke found alarming and frankly, amateurish. He'd only fought alongside a handful of northern Hunter-Killer pilots – the drip feed of reinforcements that arrived at sporadic intervals to bolster the southern defences. Some, like Sergeant Charpente, had proved themselves. Others had been swallowed up by the fires of war, their inexperience fatal.

Few of these new arrivals would have seen combat, let alone come face to face with a Scraegan. In this war, raw experience would always be more important than sheer numbers.

"What do you think of the little toy soldiers?" muttered Sergeant Parnell, commander of HK-Bishop, nudging him with on elbow and inclining her head towards the northern contingent. A few years his senior, Parnell was a wiry dark-haired woman with a reputation for dependability, and her disdain towards the newcomers was clear to see.

"No denying that they can look that part," Ryke replied, shooting her a sidelong glance. "Give them a chance. They might surprise us."

"And they might not." She folded her arms, shaking her head dubiously as she settled back into her seat. "Fighting Scraegans is enough of a task without adding babysitting duty."

Further conversation petered out as the last of the officers filed into the amphitheatre and an expectant hush descended on them. Ryke leaned forwards in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees as he examined the figures on the state. The ranking Hunter-Killer officers in Brekka, Major Andre 'Reaver' De Lunta sat to the right of the main lectern, a big man with skin the colour of brass, a shaven head and a thick beard. He was one of the longest serving pilots on record; a veteran with more than eight years of hard-earned combat experience. To Ryke's surprise the soldier's eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped as though in defeat.

Next to him Colonel Vandeleen Hackley of the Scout Cadre sat stiff as a board, discomfort rolling off her like hard radiation. Short brown hair was tucked under a crimson beret, and a plate of metal replaced her left eye – a reminder that the troops of the Scout Cadre fought as bravely as anyone else.

Two senior officers of the Brekkan militia accompanied them, and sitting just behind the lectern was the craggy, aged figure of General Thiekvaal, the overall commander of Brekka's armed forces. To the left of the lecture seven individuals who made up the command staff of the northern army were situated.

Satisfied that every officer was accounted for, one of those figures stood up.

He was a towering individual, broad-shouldered and standing easily six and a half feet tall, clad in an immaculate dress uniform of white and silver. His square-jawed face was clean shaven and from beneath his high-peaked officer's cap Ryke could see black hair dusted with encroaching specks of grey. He stepped to the lectern and a satisfied smile spread across his weathered features. Dark, calculating eyes roved across the amphitheatre as he spoke.

"Good afternoon," he boomed with a voice that matched his physique. "My name is Field Marshal August Llewellyn. I am the ranking officer from Rubicon, and leader of the northern coalition expeditionary force."

Rubicon. Ryke pressed his hands against his chin. Rubicon was a mythical place to most of Brekka's citizens – where Rychter's colonists first landed and one of the few places on the planet with an accessible natural water source. While there was no decree that formally stated it, Rubicon was the biggest and oldest city in existence, and the de facto capital. This was bigger than he'd thought.

"I am sure that our arrival has been a surprise to many of you," the marshal continued. "But after recent events, it was decided that a more direct approach to the Scraegan threat is required, an approach that draws upon our full strength. For too long have you in Brekka faced the threat alone. That changes today."

"About damn time," murmured one of the other Hunter-Killer officers and Ryke tried to suppress a smirk.

Llewellyn took a deep breath, his smile fading as he spoke. "The doctrine of containment was handed down to the military leaders of Brekka many years ago. Keep the Scraegans in the badlands – prevent them from encroaching further into our territory. I am sad to say that this has not been achieved. The Commissariat assemblies of our cities have watched with growing concern as town after town has fallen, culminating in the assault on Brekka itself. It's clear that you cannot contain this threat."

Something in his tone made Ryke's spine stiffen. The undercurrent of accusation. His jaw tightened and he exchanged a grim glance with Parnell. An uneasy rumble of discontent rippled through the Brekkan officers.

"And if it cannot be contained," Llewellyn thundered over the faint murmur of noise. "We will remove it. The cities of the north have assembled the single largest force seen on Rychter for one purpose. We are here to end this war, by any means necessary."

The tremor of unease grew louder, but Llewellyn raised one hand, a patient smile on his face. "This new doctrine has been agreed between both the commissariats and the ranking military officers of both Brekka and the northern coalition. I will be in overall command of the expeditionary force, with your own General Thiekvaal as my second." He gestured lazily to Thiekvaal. The old general inclined his head stiffly but said nothing, and his posture looked anything but happy about the current state of affairs.

Llewellyn kept talking, gesturing to other officers from the northern cadre, and with every word the hairs rose up on the back of Ryke's neck. He could feel the sizzle of affronted rage making its way through every single Brekkan soldier in the room.

"All infantry forces will be under the command of Colonel Marrow, and all scout brigades will be under the purview of Colonel Hackley."

Well that was something, at least. Putting anyone other than the vastly experienced Hackley in charge of the scouts would have been madness.

But it seemed he'd underestimated the level of insult that Marshal Llewellyn was prepared to give as he swept a hand towards a bulky individual with a broad, flat nose and a thick handlebar moustache bristling across his face. The man straightened up, chin held high in recognition.

"Overall command of the Hunter-Killer forces stationed in Brekka will be turned over to Colonel Ulysses Magain-Harcourt," Llewellyn declared. "Ranking officer in Rubicon and commander of HK-Ferocci."

That announcement was about as well-received as an atomic bomb.

Ryke sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyebrows shooting up surprise. All around him a torrent of expletive-laden curses poured from the other Hunter-Killer officers at the implied insult. He looked desperately at Major De Lunta, but the Hunter-Killer commander kept his eyes down, his whole body taut with tension. It was pretty clear this decision had been forced upon him, and it was more than his pilots were willing to take.

"I'd sooner send my soul down the River!" Parnell yelled above the hubbub, shooting up out of her seat. "We know who our commander is."

Her sentiment was echoed by several others in quick succession – Ryke included. He could barely believe what he was hearing. They were supposed to follow this stiff-collared aristocrat from Rubicon over a tested battlefield leader like Reaver? The Brekkan Hunter-Killers had been through hell and back with him. While the formality of a promotion to colonel hadn't happened yet, the pilots all assumed that Andre De Lunta would be their commander until he died.

Instead they were blind sided with this?

Colonel Harcourt's sharp, aquamarine gaze scythed down upon them, his lip curling in disdain, as though he were appraising a rabble of savages. Marshal Llewellyn's breezy demeanour evaporated in an instant as he turned his glare upon Ryke and his companions.

"These are orders and not open to personal interpretation," he thundered. "I'm aware that you have run a loose ship here. You have been given a leeway not afforded to others, but that ends today. I do not care about your personal qualms and relationships. I care about making sure this entire planet is safe from the Scraegan menace."

"Then don't sideline the most experienced Hunter-Killer officer on this planet!" Ryke roared, is blood pumping now, furious adrenaline seething in his veins. Several other officers bellowed their agreement, even some of the Scout Cadre and militia adding their voices to the clamour. Then the northern officers seated adjacent to them started shouting too, hollering insults and barking demands for respect.

In a matter of seconds the whole room descended into a chaos.

The insult was more than he could bare. After all the years Brekka's citizens had spent giving their lives, this was how they were repaid? To be told they weren't good enough, and be replaced by some slick-pressed bootlicker from the north? The clamour rose to the rafters as the unwelcome coalition began to disintegrate before it a shot had been fired.

"ENOUGH!"

That one word erupted through the amphitheatre like a thunderclap, amplified by the speakers that lined the walls and delivered with enough volume to make Ryke's ears sting. In an instant the yelling subsided and all eyes returned to the lectern. His eyes went wide.

It had not come from Llewellyn.

It was General Theikvaal.

Ryke's heart sank as he stared at Brekka's military commander, the old soldier glowering out across the chamber with barely suppressed fury. Llewellyn stood respectfully off to the side as the general took control.

"Stand down, all of you," Theikvaal snarled. "You are supposed to be soldiers. Act like it. You have received orders from a superior officer and you will obey them. These people are your comrades in arms, they are not here to steal your glory."

His voice was thick with disappointment and he swept his stormy gaze across the Brekkan soldiers, daring any of them to contradict him. Ryke still felt the anger but he swallowed it down and with an effort eased himself back into his seat. He tugged Parnell down after him. One by one the officers sank down like a receding tide. Theikvaal waited for several seconds until he was satisfied that order had been restored.

Then he turned and stepped aside, gesturing to the lectern. "Marshal."

Llewellyn gave him a nod and retook his position, gripping the sides of the lectern with both hands.

"I understand your reticence," he said, his tone calm and measured as he addressed the Brekkan troops. "You have stood alone for a long time, but not any more. We begin joint training drills tomorrow – duty rosters will be posted in the barrack blocks at the conclusion of this meeting."

Llewellyn straightened up, head held high once more. "The war for our world begins today."