Page 1 of Fated in A Time of War
CHAPTER 1
KRALL
The cruiser stinks of recycled air and wet canvas, like every other flying coffin I’ve ever dropped in. The scent seeps into everything—armor, skin, thoughts. It clings like mold, like the memory of too many operations run the same damn way. I sit sideways in the troop bay, helmet off, boots braced against the ribbed floor, chewing on a ration bar that tastes like sawdust dipped in disappointment.
Across from me, Lakka’s doing his best impersonation of a steel statue, visor down, hands folded over the butt of his rifle. The only part of him that moves is his eyes—locked on nothing, as if focusing hard enough might let him see through the storm we’re flying into.
“You know,” I say around a mouthful, “if I die here, I want it known that my last meal was this unholy brick. Pretty sure it’s supposed to be cherry-flavored. Taste anything but.”
He doesn’t answer.
“C’mon, Lakk. Lighten up. You’d think this was your first rodeo.”
“It’s not,” he mutters without lifting his visor. “Which is why I’m not laughing.”
“Yeah, yeah. ‘Discipline is survival.’ Heard it all before.” I toss the rest of the bar to the deck and lean back, stretching my arms behind my head. “But I’d rather die cracking jokes than clenching my ass so hard I break a vertebra.”
That gets a grunt out of Tovak, one of the riflemen sitting two rows down. “Pretty sure you already did, Sergeant. You're about as tense as a sexless priest at a strip club.”
The whole bay chuckles. Even Daxx, the sniper who barely speaks, gives a quiet snort. Morale—such as it is—rises a tick. That’s my job. Keep the spirits up. Keep the mood light. We’re Vakutan, yeah, but even genetically superior lizard-soldiers need to laugh before dropping feet-first into another crater-pocked hell.
“I’m just saying,” I go on, louder now, so the whole squad can hear me over the groan of the drop cruiser’s stabilizers, “Command says this zone’s mostly burned out. Place is dust and old bones. We’re mop-up. Take some shots, pose for recon, maybe piss off a few Ataxians hiding in trash heaps.”
“Isn’t that what you said before Veruk’s Fall?” Lakka cuts in, voice sharp.
I wave him off. “Veruk’s Fall had an actual heat signature on entry. This place? Ghost town. You saw the scans—nothing but broken buildings and static. Hell, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to nap in a bombed-out liquor store.”
The cruiser banks hard to starboard, inertia yanking at my insides. Someone pukes. Not me. I’m used to the rhythm—lean into it, ride the movement like a wave. The air turns sour, tang of bile and fuel burning my nostrils. I reach for my helmet, snapping the seals into place with practiced ease. Now I’ve got filters. I’m safe.
Almost.
“Landing in thirty,” the pilot barks through the overhead speaker. “Atmosphere’s thick with interference, expect minorsensor loss and rough terrain. Strap in. It’s gonna be a bumpy bitch.”
“That’s what she said,” I mutter automatically. Another ripple of chuckles. Even Lakka sighs, like he’s resigned to babysitting me for the rest of the war.
We lock into position, harnesses clicking across our chests, magboots securing to the deck. I run a systems check. Rifle, full charge. Armor integrity, green across the board. HUD's glitchy from the storm outside, but it’s readable. My pulse is calm, steady. My mouth is dry but not from fear—just anticipation. Another op. Another hot drop. We’ve done this a hundred times.
The cruiser shudders violently, like a giant’s fist just smacked it out of the sky. Outside, thunder rumbles—not natural, but the kind that comes from atmospheric burn and anti-air scraping the edge of our hull. Sparks spit from a conduit near the cockpit. The lights flicker once. The squad doesn’t flinch. We’ve all been through worse.
We hit atmosphere. Hard.
The deck rattles under my boots, and gravity shifts in bursts, like someone keeps punching the planet’s “on” switch. I glance at Lakka. His hands tighten around his rifle. No words, just a look. I give him a lazy salute, and he shakes his head like I’m a kid who just drank engine coolant.
“Boots in ten,” the pilot growls.
The bay doors scream open, and a blast of static-charged wind punches us in the teeth. Horus IV greets us like it hates us—sky roiling like diseased water, lightning crawling across gray-black clouds. Ash falls like snow. I can barely see the ground below, but it’s there—broken, pitted, smeared with the memories of a thousand dead.
“Drop!” Lakka shouts, his voice cutting through the wind.
I leap.
Weightlessness swallows me. Then gravity grabs my spine and yanks. I land in a crouch, magboots kissing cracked ferrocrete with a satisfyingthunk. The rest of the unit drops in tight formation. Our boots kick up soot. Air filters whine. The ruins of Tanuki stretch around us like the bones of a dead god—skyscrapers gutted, streets choked with debris and melted vehicles.
My HUD pings with location data. All green. Squad formed up.
“Welcome to paradise,” I mutter.
“Tighten formation,” Lakka calls, already moving forward. “Stay sharp.”
