Omake: Against Exhaustion
Corporal Damos should have been well rested as he took up sentry duty. Unfortunately, rest had not been an easy thing to come by in this war. Ever since the swarm came, even before the first monsters had made landfall, its presence had weighed heavily on the mind and soul: an almost palpable menace. Once the attack began it became even worse, a smothering weight that crushed sleep accompanied the hordes of nightmares that swarmed across the flattened lands that surrounded the city.
For the first few weeks he had found some relief with sedatives, catching almost a full ration of sleep each cycle. He wasn't sure if the past week had actually been harder, or if it had simply been the increasing pressure of the siege. It certainly felt like it had been. The past two days had been the worst. He wasn't sure if he had slept at all in them.
In theory his superiors would have noticed his reduced readiness and done something to ensure that someone actually rested would take up the post. And in fact, that had happened days ago. It was why he had been shuffled to a low risk, low value watch buried deep within the city. Unfortunately, there simply weren't enough warm bodies available in order to take him out of the rotation completely. He hadn't been sure if it was irony or perhaps some perverse kindness that had seen him guarding his home hab block.
So it was that with bleary eyes and sluggish thoughts he took up his post.
Bleary eyes and sluggish mind failed to register the shimmer in the air.
Had his death been less swift he might have made a quip about finally getting some rest. As it was he didn't even have a chance to notice the transition between life and oblivion.
-----
Aleksander Andreassen started at the aide's gentle cough. He turned to her, dragging bloodshot eyes from redeploying another dozen regiments to close yet another gap.
"Sir, casualty report. Infiltration strike in city Hraldston sector AA-7-6. Six hundred forty seven dead."
She proffered the data slate with the details.
His stare turned to incredulity, with anger hot on its heels. Who the hell was she to waste his time with a report of less than a thousand dead in an insignificant sector of an marginally important city? Anything less than ten million should have been handled long before it reached him.
Then his exhaustion muddled thoughts caught up with themselves, the location she had reported linking up with an order he had given days ago. With mounting dread he looked down at the slate, picking out a piece of demographic information regarding the fallen.
"Thank you Sarah," he croaked, numbly taking the slate from the woman who had served as his personal assistant for the past twenty years.
With mounting dread he slid his fingers across the display, transferring the data on the slate to the central database. His eyes fixed on a number. Four digits, two on each side of a decimal point. By all rights that number should have ticked up days ago, only his personal insistence that the truncated digits of that field be rounded down keeping it where it was.
As the data entered the system, four digits with a decimal became three, unadorned.
Militia Casualties: 99.99%
Militia Casualties: 100%
The last soul that had signed up to protect their home under his command had fallen.
Seven days ago the elites, the Astartes, the Svartalf Guard, the Hellguard, the Helltroopers, the Knights, all had pulled back. Hiding that fact would have been impossible, but the damage to morale promised to be devastating. So he had spoken to his armies, to the teeming billions who served under him. He had exhorted them to stand, spoken to them of why they fought, reminded them of what their lives were worth and what they would buy with their sacrifice.
All the while the image of Rotbart's face as he gave the orders burned on Aleksander's mind. The man had not been cold or cruel. Stern, yes he had been stern, but there had been compassion and horror in his eyes. For all that, Aleksander could not possibly forget that the man commanding him to sacrifice tens of billions of the least trained, least well armed troops to cover the retreat of the elites was the same man who sold the souls of the damned for knowledge and power. He could not help but hate the man in that instant.
Now, seven days later, he looked at the cost of survival. Men dead in their billions, his own command standing alone against the tide for two days. For a moment it felt like the world teetered on the edge of an impossibly vast chasm, only a hair's breadth from falling into despair. He regarded the map, with its casualty figures and swaths of enemy red where once four other sectors stood. His gaze turned to the central ring of Fortress Prime, and all the souls that sheltered within. Innocents that would have a far better chance at survival with the time he had bought. He pulled back from the edge, pulled back from despair, and the moment passed.
The tipping point had been reached: they had held for as long as was possible. If they tried to stay longer, they would be too exhausted to protect themselves during the retreat itself.
"Water," he croaked to his aide. A cup was in his hand almost as he said it, and he drank greedily.
"Stims," he said to the biologis attending him. There was no protest as the chemicals were proffered.
As refreshed and revitalized as was possible in this war he turned and activated the public address system.
"Soldiers of the Trust, hear me. For seven days we have stood against the tide, holding back the enemy as our brothers and sisters fell around us. For two days we have stood alone, the final bulkwark before the enemy could assault the final redoubt of mankind on this world. You have held the line for longer than anyone had any right to ask of you, and in so doing you have purchased the time that we so desperately need if we are to safeguard this world and its people. You cannot imagine how proud I am to count myself among you this day.
Now our duty here is done. It is time for us to fall back in good order, to rejoin the armies in fortress prime. One last push men, and then we can rest."
His address done, he keyed off the address system and turned to his command staff.
"Alright people! We have a retreat to coordinate! We're not letting the bastards have even one of our people if we can help it!"
@Durin