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Hawke guided the transport copter skillfully through the blustering wind, just barely above the crashing waves of the circumpolar ocean, as he made his way towards the distant, craggy island of bare rock. Even here and now, he would not admit to being nervous. Nerves were weakness, weakness was incompetence, and incompetence was unacceptable.
At last it came into view: high cliffs, a few scraggly trees, and the bulbous, rounded forms of an organic-seeming technology, smooth and matte black, cannons emplaced along the hill, missile batteries and anti aircraft cannons. This was it, the outermost edge of the stronghold of the otherworldly being who had so recently brought the world to near ruin. Gripping the controls in his right hand, running a hand absently through his shock of white hair, he navigated the copter towards a relatively even patch of land, perhaps a half-mile from the fortress. He didn’t need to check the battle computer on his left wrist. He knew that he was within range of the missiles, and any one of them could blow him out of the sky at an instant.
The radio crackled to life, and a strangely squeaky, electronically synthesised voice came on.
“Lord Sturm grants you permission to approach,” the voice sounded a little surprised even at its own words. “Do not deviate from this course or you will be shot down.”
There followed a series of coordinates to an airstrip.
As he approached, Hawke looked down at the strange, bulbous, almost organic-looking anti-air and tanks milling about the airship, bringing his craft into land with perfect elegance despite the wind. He stood, looking out of the window. A squad of soldiers clad in all-encompassing armour suits with face-obscuring visors approached, armed with advanced rifles, armoured with enhanced-mobility exoskeletons that, he knew, gave them fully a twenty percent advantage in both combat and defence over regulars, as well as an ability to run through near-impassable terrain with ease.
He disembarked, marvelling a little at the advanced armour and rapid-fire rail-based cannons that had so violently and easily torn through the numerically superior forces of the allied nations. The frictionless bearings and stabilisation arrays underneath all of the vehicles were truly a testament to the mysterious alien technology that enabled them to glide effortlessly across battlefields, manoeuvring with speeds that no other commander could keep up with, not even him.
Deep down, Hawke was uncertain about his decision. But hesitation was weakness, just another kind of incompetence. It couldn’t be allowed.
Hawke stood up, his stern face, shock of white hair, and black trench coat standing out starkly against the white landscape. He descended the steps of the copter, feeling the cold bite through his coat, each step heavy with the weight of his decision.
“You are to come with us!” came the high-pitched voice of the squad leader, and without another word, they frogmarched him, forming up around him as they proceeded from the helipad along a narrow road. A tall, square fortress came into view, made of the same black armour plates, shrouded in mist. He spotted other forms all around, exotic armoured vehicles, strange aircraft and APCs in neat, seemingly endless rows to either side beneath the steel-grey sky.
Upon entering the fortress, Hawke was led through harsh, unpainted corridors by the armoured men: if, indeed, they were men at all. They left him standing outside a heavy blast door.
“Go through,” the soldier said.
“What will I find there?”
“Go through,” it repeated.
Hawke shrugged, feigning nonchalance, and pressed the button, stepping through into a larger chamber, similarly bleakly furnished and lit. There was a man lounging, on a couch off to one side, tall, gaunt, with dark hair, dressed in a finely cut dark suit that was clearly meant to imitate military garb.
“Well, fancy seeing you here,” smirked Adder. “I see you also came round to the winning side.”
“Something like that,” Hawke raised one eyebrow, not quite unable to hide his distaste for the man.
A washout with, he admitted, some noticeable skill in manoeuvre warfare, Adder had chased accusations of bullying, coverups and violent meltdowns all through various postings in Orange Star, then defection to blue moon, until finally being expelled dishonourably from that army and disappearing entirely. Hawke was not surprised to see him here: selfish, craven, narcissist that he was.
“The boss is due to come by any minute,” said Adder, smoothing his uniform tunic. “If you want to live, I suggest you drop that attitude, fast. Just a bit of friendly advice. You’ll make a fine underling, I’m sure. And who knows, maybe he’ll let you build a statute of yourself. Beside the one for me of course. And smaller, of course.”
He laughed as if he was joking. The noise grated on Hawke’s eardrums.
“I am nothing like you, Adder. I’ll have no need for such things.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. We all know why we’re both here, so why don’t you drop the holier-than thou pretence and just admit you’re here to save your own skin and share in the spoils. There’s no shame in it, not between the likes of us.”
It was at that moment that Sturm strode into the room.
The creature, whatever he really was, was tall, dressed in a black cape and peaked black cap, symbols which resembled but did not actually originate in any specific military.
Beneath the cap and above the cloak, Hawke saw only a bronze death mask with glowing red eyes, and snaking tubes of a rebreather mask. He was tall, perhaps a half-metre taller than Hawke, and his heavy footfalls clanged on the floor. Those red eyes seemed ancient, the artificial gaze impossible for even him to return.
Hawke glanced to one side, and saw that Adder, the man who, he was certain, had never seen anyone else as a true equal, let alone superior, had fallen to one knee.
Sturm looked Hawke up and down. The air in the room was thick with tension as the two locked eyes for a moment.
"You have come a long way, Hawke," Sturm said, his voice deep and resonant. "You seek to join me?"
Hawke hesitated for a moment. And, slowly, hesitantly, he dropped to one knee.
"I've seen your power, Sturm. I want to share it. I want to rule by your side. Allow me to serve you.”
Hawke knelt before Sturm, hoping his performance would be convincing. But Sturm laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed through the room.
"Perhaps I will, little bird, perhaps I will. If you tell me this: why did you just lie to me?”
\*\*\*\*\*
Hawke, a noted independent military contractor, sat in a dimly lit conference room at the Green Earth military headquarters, sipping his black coffee and surveying the faces of those in attendance. Marshall Eagle and his staff were gathered around a large table, maps and intelligence reports scattered across its surface. The topic: potential countermeasures should Sturm and his Black Hole forces return.
Eagle, a proud man who still habitually wore his airforce uniform, stood at the head of the table, his piercing gaze fixed on each of his officers as he spoke. On the large screen, they watched a high altitude video capture of a meteor tearing through the sky, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake and impacting amid a battalion of elite orange star armoured units, annihilating them in an instant. Moments later, the aerial footage zoomed in.
They all watched as Sturm's hardened, ultrafast units swarmed over the terrain, tanks churning along plains and tearing through woods, their advanced cannons shredding the opposing armoured vehicles, overwhelming them with ease. The scene was a chilling reminder of the power and ruthlessness they were up against.
Kanbei, the emperor of Yellow Comet, spoke up first, stern and commanding. "We must find a way to counter Sturm's forces. My elite divisions have the strength and discipline to hold their ground. Technological wizardry cannot help but fall before the spirit of a true Samurai.”
Eagle shook his head, unconvinced. "I admire your spirit, yes indeed, and I agree that, unit for unit, you can match him. But your forces require extra funds to recruit and cannot be made available in sufficient numbers. And even your finest soldiers cannot match Sturm’s sheer manoeuvrability. We need to consider alternative strategies."
Colin, the young prince of Blue Moon, timidly offered his thoughts. "Perhaps my ability to extract accelerating returns of raw materials from captured cities could be of use. We could funnel resources into building up our defences and developing new countermeasures, overwhelm him with sheer numbers."
“Remind me,” said Kanbei. “Why is this child present?”
Colin started to say something but Kanbei interrupted again.
“Don’t tell me it's because of his family’s connections. We should be consulting with General Secretary Olaf if anyone, yet he did not deign to appear at this meeting.”
Hawke knew why: the presence of Orange star commanders was still a sore spot for the committed Blue Moon nationalist. But they couldn’t even get all the COs in the same room, what hope of presenting a united front against the extraterrestrial invaders?
As the discussion continued, Hawke remained silent, privately dismissing each proposed strategy as nonviable. He knew that they were grasping at straws, hoping to find a solution that simply didn't exist.
And, he reflected, so what if they could somehow, through sheer luck and overwhelming numbers, triumph in one single battle, as in Cosmo Land? There would always be more units pumped out of those autofactories.
But he couldn't bring himself to voice these thoughts, knowing that it would only serve to demoralise the other commanders. Instead, he focused on the screen, watching the meteor strike replay again and again, a grim reminder of the seemingly insurmountable challenge they faced.
They had no notion of the limits on Sturm’s meteors: perhaps he would simply drop them endlessly, hammering their forces to dust in a way that made all defence irrelevant, until they were at last forced to capitulate?
As the meeting continued, Hawke's feeling of unease grew. The gnawing, sinking sensation in his stomach intensified as he listened to the wishful thinking and overconfidence of Eagle and his staff. They were discussing tactics and strategies as if Sturm's forces were just another enemy, not taking into account the incredible power and advanced technology that Black Hole possessed. With such an enemy, victory seemed not only improbable but impossible. Stalling, delaying the inevitable, appeared to be the only option.
As the meeting dragged on, Hawke decided he couldn't stay silent any longer. "Eagle," he interjected, trying to remain composed, "I understand the need for preparation, but we must consider the possibility that conventional tactics might not be enough against Sturm's forces. We've seen what he's capable of, and I fear that we're underestimating the threat he poses."
Eagle frowned, his pride clearly wounded by Hawke's words. "Your concern is noted, but we have faced great challenges before and emerged victorious. We must trust in our abilities and the strength of our soldiers. Fear and doubt have no place here."
Hawke nodded, feeling his gut twist. Incompetence again: stupidity mistaken for bravery, and nobody would call him out on it, because that would seem too much like defeatism. But there simply was no way out: he could see that now.
The meeting had broken up without any clear resolution, and Hawke at last had the spotlight. The sun was setting on the dusty training ground, casting long shadows as the Orange Star, Blue Moon, Yellow Comet, and Green Earth COs gathered to observe Hawke's demonstration of his unique ability. The atmosphere was tense, with an undercurrent of curiosity and scepticism. Hawke, dressed in his signature black trench coat, stood tall and stern-faced, a cup of black coffee in hand, as he prepared to showcase the Black Storm.
The assembled COs murmured amongst themselves, whispering about the rumours they'd heard of Hawke's ability to call down EMPs and nanites to cripple enemies and buff allies. Sami, the infantry specialist from Orange Star, stood with crossed arms, her expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Eagle, the leader of Green Earth's air force, wore a stoic expression, his eyes intently focused on Hawke.
With a nod from Hawke, the exercise began. A mix of infantry, tanks, and air units rolled into the training ground, simulating an enemy force. Hawke surveyed the battlefield, his eyes cold and calculating. He raised his right hand, palm facing upward, and clenched it into a fist, signalling the commencement of the Black Storm.
Dark clouds rolled in overhead, casting an ominous shadow over the battlefield. Suddenly, lightning struck the enemy units, sending out an EMP pulse that disrupted their electronics and immobilized them. At the same time, swarms of nanites descended from the sky, like a black rain, enveloping Hawke's own elite PMC units. The nanites quickly worked their way into the machinery, reinforcing the armour and enhancing their firepower.
The transformation was immediate and dramatic. Hawke's units moved with newfound agility and power, tearing through the crippled enemy forces with ease. The COs watched in awe and disbelief as the battlefield quickly turned in Hawke's favour. The demonstration ended as swiftly as it had begun, leaving a trail of disabled enemy units in its wake.
As the dust settled, the COs couldn't help but feel a chill run down their spines. The display of power had been both mesmerising and terrifying. With a grim smile, Hawke took a sip from his coffee, knowing that he had made his point. But, as he glanced over at Eagle, he saw something else, a look of distaste, perhaps?
He was ruthless, he knew, but ruthlessness was what it took to win. And if they were in a struggle for the survival of the entire world, was anything truly off limits?
It was later that evening. Something about his manner, or the way that his weapon had operated, seemed to have left a bad taste in the mouth of the other commanders. Their enthusiasm for recruiting him and his men was limited. Moreover, it seemed that they didn’t appreciate his suggestions at the strategic level. They were determined to continue in their blind optimism. Incompetence, incompetence again, everywhere and at every level. It was just so frustrating.
Hawke, sipping a cup of coffee as black as his mood, found himself in a tavern located in the heart of the old city of Green Earth’s capital in Macro Land. The establishment was nestled beside a regal castle where Eagle had set up his military headquarters, a testament to the nation's rich history. The atmosphere inside the tavern was warm and inviting, with flickering candles casting a soft glow on the wooden tables and stone walls. He saw, off to one side, the youthful tank commander Jess, rowdily drinking with her men.
As he sat brooding at the bar, Hawke was approached by a tall, imposing figure with a neatly trimmed beard and a strong sense of duty etched into his features, dressed in a traditional green earth uniform.
"May I join you, Hawke?" the man asked, his deep voice filled with genuine concern.
Hawke nodded, gesturing to the empty stool beside him. "Please, have a seat."
“Javier, honoured to meet you. Though I never truly approved of your profession, private militaries and all that, I have heard you to be a shrewd and pragmatic man. A type we shall need, I fear.”
He extended a hand, giving a short bow of the head as Hawke shook it.
“Javier, CO of Green Earth, though Omega Land is my home. I shall be returning there shortly, in fact.”
As Javier settled in, he studied Hawke's face, easily picking up on the troubled thoughts that weighed heavily on his mind. "You seem troubled, my friend. What's been occupying your thoughts?"
Hawke hesitated for a moment, then decided to share his concerns. "I've been thinking about Sturm and his forces. I can't shake the feeling that we're woefully unprepared for what he might bring."
“Yes,” nodded Javier solemnly. “They fight brutally, modern-day barbarians, raiding cities for all that they are worth to fund their war machine, and no-one knows from whence they came. They say he’s from another world, you know.”
Hawke nodded. He heard a distant yell of triumph as Jess slammed her palm on the bar, ordering another round of drinks.
“There is an analogue in our own history, I believe. Superior forces who invade to steal and conquer, despite having no territory of their own to begin with. They came in, turned the local forces against each other and then picked them off in their weakened state, as happened in Cosmo Land. I speak of the conquistadors of old, a distasteful chapter in the history of my people.”
Hawke nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the comparison. "Yes, I see the parallel. The conquistadors were a force that couldn't be reckoned with by conventional means. They exploited the weaknesses of their enemies and used their advanced technology to great effect."
“Indeed,” said Javier. “They saw themselves as superior, their opponents as primitives unworthy of respect, and sought to rule as absolute lords. That, I believe, is what this Sturm is. A conquistador from another world.”
Hawke took a sip of his coffee, the bitterness mirroring his thoughts. "If I recall my history correctly, some of the nations Green Earth once conquered sided with their conquerors against others, and so became favoured. Were they selfish to do so, evil, or merely making the only rational decision to protect some of their people?"
Javier contemplated Hawke's words for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "To side with an enemy who sees you as subhuman, to betray your own, for any purpose, no matter how noble, is an act of evil. There can be no greater dishonour."
“Yes,” said Hawke. “Of course.”
\*\*\*\*\*
“Follow me. Leave us, worm,” snapped Sturm, gesturing at Adder, who slinked away down a side corridor, staring daggers at Hawke as the door shut.
Hawke stood, hesitantly, following the towering figure.
"You're a cunning one, Hawke," Sturm said, once they were alone. "But I see through your charade. I know your true motives. You're here because you believe that winning against Black Hole is impossible. You believe that the others are blinded by foolish optimism, so you have come to me, alone, in the hopes of saving your world."
Hawke kept his expression neutral.
“You have calculated, in your own mind, that a shorter war would be less destructive, if I am bound to win in any case. You have determined that if you can become my right-hand, perhaps you can manage the affairs of this world in my stead, and perhaps protect your people from my depredations.”
“I seek only to serve-”
“DO NOT LIE TO ME AGAIN,” Sturm whirled around with sudden, inhuman speed, smoke hissing from his bronze mask. Just for a moment, Hawke flinched backwards.
“Yes,” he said, voice steady. “Your assessment is correct.”
Sturm regarded Hawke with a newfound respect. "Your candour earns you my mercy. Perhaps you'll prove to be a valuable asset after all."
High above the fortress, Sturm led Hawke out onto a balcony overlooking the vast expanse of the island. The view was nothing short of breathtaking, with Sturm-type neotanks and bombers on display alongside fabricator factories, seemingly ready to churn out endless units at a moment's notice, stretching out over bare rock, and before that, endless ocean.
The tall, imposing figure with a bronze cowl that concealed most of his alien features, turned to face Hawke, whose stern, pale face stood in sharp contrast to his dark trench coat. The middle-aged man looked weary, as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders.
"Why," Sturm asked, his voice cold and distant, "did you never become a commanding officer in any of the allied nations?”
Hawke hesitated, searching for the right words, but Sturm interrupted before he could reply. "It's because you were too ruthless, too Machiavellian. They never appreciated you or your methods, even when they were effective. Only you had the strength of will to see what was necessary. I appreciate that, more than the craven self-interest of the others. You could indeed prove useful.”
“I thank you,” said Hawke. Sturm turned out towards the balcony, blank metallic gaze surveying the ranks of vehicles, cannons and factories.
“On my world, we long since came to understand that war is the natural state of things. Those who see what must be done, who win the struggle for existence, deserve what they can take. You will come to see this truth in time.”
He paused, studying Hawke's face intently. "Do you hate me, Hawke, for seizing your world?"
Hawke looked Sturm directly in the eyes, his voice filled with a mixture of bitterness and determination. "More than you can possibly imagine."
In response, Sturm raised a hand, and for a moment, Hawke thought he was going to strike him, though he managed not to flinch. There was a faint click, and a murmured word from Sturm that he couldn’t quite make out. Nothing happened.
Slowly, Sturm began to laugh, a strange, artificial sound, as he lowered his hand.
“Look out towards the sea. If, in some faint corner of your mind, you still harbour fantasies of defeating me, put them to rest.”
Far, far above, Hawke caught a glimpse of something, a glimmer of light, perhaps the flare of a rocket engine, but soon it grew brighter, turning into a line of fire that streaked across the sky and struck the ocean, out beyond the horizon. There was a flash of blinding white light that outshone the sun, and an explosive shockwave, showers of rock vapour and molten debris that soared into the sky as a tsunami formed, rushing towards them.
He stood, transfixed in horror, as the tsunami from the meteor impact rushed towards them, breaking across the high clifftops, attenuated enough that it didn’t quite make it over the high walls of Sturm’s fortress.
Sturm turned back towards him without another world.
“We will begin with Macro Land. I desire raw materials there to fuel our expansion across this world. You will take control of the other COs and seize a bridgehead there. Do you accept this task?”
“Yes, Lord,” said Hawke. There was nothing else left. His life was forfeit now, his path chosen.
"Kneel," Sturm commanded, his voice unwavering, "and swear fealty to me."
He slowly knelt before Sturm, his voice steady as he pledged his loyalty.
"I swear to secure the allied nations and their resources in your name, Sturm."
But, he realised something, faintly, in a private corner of his mind, a tiny spark of hope that he dare not act on, nor even acknowledge. It was Sturm's gesture that had triggered the meteor strike, something about the alien’s suit, or some power he possessed. If this warlord was not unkillable, then perhaps there might come a chance, one day, to end him. Surely a gun wouldn’t work, but Hawke had other weapons at his disposal.