The interrogation of Jaster Mereel... well, not an interrogation. More like a polite inquiry, because as it turned out, he had quite a lot of supporters, and at the moment we detained him on Concord Dawn, a very real riot almost broke out.
The simple, honest, and quite understandable ideas of the True Mandalorians attracted young people and other militarized parts of the population. Considering themselves warriors of honor, fighters for convictions, and real super-commandos was attractive to many. Besides, the rules there were fairly simple.
Fortunately, Jaster Mereel himself understood what this could lead to and, with the governor's permission, spoke to the agitated people. He convinced them that he was being detained on a murder charge, not for his political views. The jerk even laughed that a whole team of professional Assassins on a cruiser was sent for him alone, as the official government lacked the strength to catch him.
As it turned out, there was some murky story where Jaster Mereel had killed a high-ranking officer for corruption in the past, and he was forbidden from being on Concord Dawn.
As a result, he and all his closest supporters were now sitting under our supervision. Disarmed and ready for a dialogue with the Duke, who decided to show up here personally from the protected capital after a few minutes of negotiations via holocomm with the leader of the True Mandalorians.
"The old man clearly has a fire under his ass... Though, he's not really an old man. A guy just slightly up in years, probably spent some time as a mercenary, so he's reminiscing about the good old days."
As you can imagine, I didn't like that the Duke wanted to arrive on a planet where there were potentially Death Watch fighters plotting a coup. Those psychos could easily decide on a new attack, only this time on the planet itself. They had plenty of supporters here, too.
The whole thing smelled like absolute shit, and I could already feel the scent of danger and impending war spreading through the air. Everyone was tense, everyone had guns, and most importantly, everyone had their own goals... A meat grinder was definitely unavoidable.
And it seems to me that Governor Tapal realizes this, which is why he's flying to Concord Dawn—so that in the event of a large-scale battle, the destruction hits this planet instead of his home world or his dearly beloved sector capital.
"So, you're a champion for the Galactic Republic, then?"
I was snapped out of my thoughts by the calm, charismatic voice of Jaster, who had entered the room. The bastard was allowed to move freely because every half hour or hour, concerned citizens or True Mandalorians would approach the building, wanting to ensure his safety.
So, I simply assigned a couple of my most trusted guys to him, who could signal an escape if he tried to run. They certainly wouldn't be able to stop him.
"For Democracy," I said, correcting the man as I turned to face him, meeting the gaze of the soulless black Visor of his helmet, framed in red. "And as long as the Galactic Republic embodies it, I will help her."
"Funny, you actually believe your own words... Or you want to believe them."
Walking slowly along the tables, he sat down opposite me, leaning back in his chair with a casual, almost familiar air. Placing one hand on the table, he habitually reached for his belt where a Blaster used to be, but catching himself, he placed it next to the first.
"Habit during negotiations."
"Yeah, I figured." Laughing along with the man, I returned to my PDA, where I was more accurately calculating the costs of ship repairs. Unable to help myself, I decided to satisfy my curiosity by starting a dialogue. "Why not just tell me where the Death Watch base is? Why all these games?"
"Even if I knew," Meryl said, leaning closer and raising an index finger toward the ceiling before softly pointing it directly at me, "I wouldn't tell you. If Tapal wants a war with them so badly, let him make that decision himself for all to see, instead of dumping it all on Assassins."
"So that's it..."
"Yes. After your victory in orbit, I have no doubt you can slaughter our ideological opponents. But we are not at war with them. And neither is the 'Duke'..."
"Everything is leading to it."
"Yes, I won't argue there." His helmet turned toward the window. The small street, with a couple of dozen houses, looked quiet and peaceful, if you didn't count the nearly hundred militia and militants taking cover in the buildings, waiting for the arrival of the New Mandalorians. At least they listen to this fellow and won't start trouble... I hope. "But this war is ours, not the Galactic Republic's."
His Visor turned back to me, and the man himself straightened his back and sat closer, pulling up his chair.
"I'm curious," Jaster said, tapping his fingers on the table and tilting his helmet to the side, "you're a mercenary, aren't you?"
Receiving my silent nod, Meryl nodded back with satisfaction.
"You fight for money and for your ideals. That means we're even somewhat alike..."
"There's that," I said, not denying his assumption, earning another nod. "Equipment, discipline, camaraderie. The warrior spirit and support fostered in soldiers... I could go on for a long time."
"Funny. I never would have thought a Judicial Forces militant would have more in common with me than some of my fellow citizens."
Shrugging at his words, I returned once more to calculating the financial losses. And with every new line, I realized the Shorty was going to squeeze my balls tight in a vise... A real woodworking vise, not some euphemism!
"Damn you all..."
"Satisfy my curiosity?"
"You can just use 'thou'. Or is that beneath a Mandalore's rank?"
"Ha-ha, no, not at all," Meryl laughed hoarsely, spreading his arms wide. "I am first among equals. I was chosen, and they follow me for my merits, not for my blood or ancestors."
"Indeed," I said, glancing at the PDA screen one last time, realizing I wouldn't be able to dodge the conversation with the leader of the True Mandalorians. "Speak, Jaster. I'm listening."
"Hm... Fine." Clearly understanding that I wouldn't play games or engage in politeness, the Mandalorian spoke bluntly... Finally. "I realize I can't outbid you, and I won't even insult you with such an offer... But I have a question. If Duke Tapal and I come to an agreement, will the Galactic Republic turn a blind eye to our organization?"
"Hard to say. I'll need to contact someone, but I can tell you one thing for sure—they won't let you propagate warrior virtues for the glory of Mandalore. Too dangerous, and the prospects are too frightening."
"Fair enough... Hm."
Thoughtfully scratching his fingers against his gauntlets, Jaster leaned back in his chair, staring out the window again. The leader of the True Mandalorians was clearly up to something, but we had no more time for talk or deciphering the mysteries of his mind.
A large ship was entering the planet's atmosphere, accompanied by a whole string of smaller vessels. My dearly cherished Pursuer-class enforcement ships surrounded a large military transport, which looked like a Mandalorian helmet.
"How they love themselves and their culture... I wouldn't be surprised if they make sex toys in the shape of their damn helmets."
"The Duke has arrived; it's time for you to talk..."
Rising from the table, I gave a meaningful look to Jaster, who followed me.
"I haven't seen him in about fifteen years... Funny how everything has changed..."
In the window, the outlines of the ship coming in for a landing near us began to appear.
Oh-ho-ho, now that's a machine I definitely wouldn't mind having. Especially as a replacement for our "Nuna." The massive machine slammed onto the planet with a roar, deploying its landing gear at the last moment. This was clearly an IFV, or at least a military transport; it entered the atmosphere far too easily and skillfully, dropping right next to us. And it hardly slowed down.
"Good ship."
"Meteor-class infantry transport—ideal for planetary landings in heavy conditions," Meryl said, standing next to me at the window and crossing his arms. I could practically feel him smiling, his whole being filled with pride for domestic production. "I suggest you haggle a couple out of Tapal. Better than a dozen small patrol craft..."
Jaster didn't get to finish.
The hills surrounding the village came alive, and two dozen missiles slammed into the side of the transport, striking the landing gear—forcing it to tilt onto its side.
Several things happened next.
True Mandalorians began pouring out of the buildings, and Death Watch fighters descended upon them from the skies, along with the regular units that had arrived with the Duke.
Several escort ships were instantly shot down by their own comrades, literally shot in the back at point-blank range. As a result, alongside the Mandalorians descending on jetpacks, debris began drumming against the roofs of the houses, sometimes swallowing buildings whole.
Snatching up my Blaster, I only exchanged a look with a tense Meryl before giving the order not to fire on the True Mandalorians, but to try and act in concert. Jaster gave a similar order, after which we left the temporary Helldivers PMC headquarters in this backwater together and plunged into the battle.
***
It was a tragedy.
Jaster Meryl was locked in hand-to-hand combat with some very young boy, who had clearly only recently received his armor. An important part of growing up that showed your best qualities and readiness to become a warrior.
Knocking the Pistol out of the boy's hand, the leader of the True Mandalorians ducked under an overly wide swing. The kid was clearly nervous, showing just how young he still was, which made Meryl's heart ache.
A half-step behind the back. Grabbing the head with both hands and snapping the defenseless neck, which wasn't secured by additional protection.
Catching the body, the man used it as a shield against a volley of shots accompanied by a furious scream. Screaming insanely like a wounded rancor, a young girl lunged at him with a thermal detonator in her hands, intending to end both their lives.
But a volley of shots hit her in the head from the side. With one last twitch, the melted helmet tilted to the side, and the unfortunate girl's body slumped under the feet of the others, quickly buried beneath the fighting crowd and debris.
One of the... Helldivers ran past Jaster. Standard armor from the Corporate Sector (CorpSec), released to the general market when they bought new sets. Repainted in black and yellow, it was lost against the backdrop of the unfolding madness.
The Helldiver simply ran past, continuing to fire in all directions until a Death Watch member landed next to him. Without hesitating, the mercenary jumped forward, slamming his head into the enemy's chest and grabbing him by the belt. Knocking his opponent to the ground, they began to wrestle. Simply hitting and choking each other. Without any technique, dangerous moves, beauty, or honor... Pitiful, dirty, cruel. Giving themselves entirely to their task.
Jaster himself was pressed by two soldiers from the regular units who had adopted the Death Watch ideology, so he didn't see the full development of events, but at some point, the Death Watchman pinned the Helldiver and drove a knife into his side.
Groaning one last time, the initially defeated man slumped onto his back, then grabbed someone's severed arm and began frantically beating his enemy's face with it.
Blood splashed over both of them. The beautiful armor took on gruesome streaks of scarlet and black. Dirt, ash, and blood mixed together.
By the time Meryl finished with the soldiers who had attacked him, the Helldiver was already sitting on the chest of the Death Watch fighter, repeatedly bringing his improvised weapon down. The mangled arm snapped at the bone, finally turning to mush. But the enemy was still alive, so the Helldiver pulled the helmet off his head, revealing to the world the simple and slightly naive face of a Ukian overcome by rage, shock, and fear.
Without losing a second, he began smashing the helmet against the enemy's head beneath him. To the sound of cracking armor and pleading screams, he struck until the upper part of the enemy's helmet cracked, leaking streams of blood.
But he didn't stop. He struck and struck and struck, first with the helmet, then with his hands, and then with some stone when his broken, disobedient fingers stopped working.
Overcoming his enemy, the Helldiver threw his head back to the sky, staring at the battle unfolding between the patrolling Conciliators. Raising his arms, he wanted to shout something... To announce his victory to the world, but at that exact moment, a blaster bolt hit him in the forehead, knocking him onto his back.
Jaster lost sight of his body.
The meat grinder continued. Lasers flashed, grenades burst, and ship debris fell from the sky as vessels in their fury rammed each other, wanting to take as many enemies with them as possible.
The entire village had turned into charred ruins. There were so many corpses it was hard to imagine. And the people just kept coming.
Troops loyal to the Duke, along with the traitors, landed their hordes right into the fray, wanting to gain the upper hand quickly. The fields where the transports landed were smoking, releasing new forces ready to join this bloody frenzy.
Following them were the surviving Assassins, converging on the Duke's fallen transport. The fortune hunters were clearly hoping to save their employer so as not to be left penniless.
The thud of footsteps sounded behind him. Turning, Jaster managed to take a step forward, preventing the enemy from making a proper lunge.
Out of the corner of his eye, the leader of the True Mandalorians noted a familiar armor style flashing nearby, which made his heart beat more restlessly.
Dodging a strike from a wrist blade, Meryl twisted the attacker's arm and pierced his chin with his own sword. Spinning around, he snatched a Pistol from the belt of the falling body, emptying the entire magazine into a creeping enemy.
"Tor."
"Hello, Jaster." Dressed in full Beskar'gam made of the famous steel, his old acquaintance and main ideological opponent pulled the hilt of a Jedi sword from behind his back. He took all the shots easily on his chest, so now he stood at full height, ready for battle and ignoring the stray light blaster bolts that occasionally flew past. "Everything went a bit off-plan, don't you think?"
Behind the back of Vizsla, the founder and leader of the Death Watch, lay a dozen corpses.
"I didn't want it to come to this. And you shouldn't have..."
"Our old friend Tapal said the same thing, and look how it turned out," Jaster couldn't see his face behind the helmet, but he felt with all his heart how the man was smirking unpleasantly, contemptuously eyeing those fighting around them. "Recruited some scum..."
Kicking the body of the Helldiver—the same one who had fought to the end—Tor Vizsla activated a black lightsaber.
"But it's for the best. I was preparing for a long and difficult war, but if it all ends right here..." Sweeping the blade across the escalating battlefield, the head of the Death Watch spread his arms. A circle somehow organized itself around them, and some Mandalorians even stopped fighting, gathering to watch the duel. "I will be sincerely glad."
***
Fighting my way to the Duke's transport, I kept losing my guys. These were the best personnel available to me at the moment, and every loss felt bitter.
We moved forward steadily, pushing through the pressing crowds of the regular army, Death Watchmen, droids, and the crazed Assassins of other bands who were fighting everyone.
Everything was mixed together, and it was simply impossible to tell who was on whose side. It was especially hard to distinguish the Mandalorian show-offs who couldn't paint their armor properly. Some were in blue, others in gray, others in black... And only a small crest on the right shoulder set them apart from the others.
Sliding under a fallen lamppost, I fired a burst from my rifle into the gut of some Mando. The first two shots hit the thick Beskar part, which absorbed the fire... But the rest hit the underbelly, burning out the gut of the bastard who was aiming a rocket launcher somewhere into the distance.
A burst of laser bolts flew past. A real line of light, like from a machine gun—it mowed down dozens of soldiers, practically cutting them in half... Both friend and foe. But the shooter was quickly silenced, and the smell of scorched flesh and a flash from a flamethrower clearly hinted at his unenviable fate.
Reaching the belly of the transport, which was open to the world, we cautiously rounded a twin blaster cannon peeking out from under the nose and came nose-to-nose with the Duke's guard, firing indiscriminately at anyone who tried to approach the ship.
"Ow, bitch!" Pushing away a couple of guys who poked their heads out after me, I checked my glove, which had been grazed by a blaster bolt. The metal had melted, and I felt a mix of heat and pain, like a severe burn... "What kind of rifles do they have over there? Hey, you blessed idiots! These are Helldivers!"
They didn't have time to answer me, because at that moment several self-driving speeders rammed the guard's fortifications—opening a path for us.
"Well, then..."
When I tried to climb inside, a Blaster was shoved in my face, hinting unmistakably to back off.
"Duke?"
"Ah... It's you, Sam," breathing heavily and struggling to move his tongue, the man lowered his hand and allowed my guys to lower him to the ground. He looked extremely unwell; I'd even say he looked like absolute shit. Half a leg gone. The other broken in several places. Both bandaged and wrapped in Bacta patches, but... "Lord Tapal, I think..."
"No need. I understand. And if it were only the legs," the Duke said, pointing a finger behind his back, allowing me to see a massive burn covered in shrapnel wounds. "I don't have much left, I can feel it. But before... cough... I must speak with Jaster. I am obligated to speak with him."
Nodding at his words, I peeked out from behind the transport debris, watching as Meryl decided to have a duel with a guy in invulnerable armor with a sword that cuts steel like butter.
"Well, this is just fucking great..."
My face twisted into a grimace, and I felt a rising fury. Especially because the fighters of both leaders were standing and waiting for the end while everyone else continued to fight around them! And no one touched them! Is this a Hollywood movie? With an epic scene at the end of the flick?
Pressing my lips tight, I returned to the Duke, whom my Helldivers were trying to pull back from the brink. At least for a few minutes. Tossing my medkit off my back, I threw it to the only surviving corporal.
"Use it to the max—don't let him die for the next half hour. Is that clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!"
Striking his fist against his chest, the corporal rushed to shake the contents onto a nearby steel sheet. There was no time for ceremony, so he immediately injected a strong drug based on narcotics and Bacta, which made the Duke's eyes bulge.
"You'll live a bit longer, you devil. The main thing is to stop the slaughter, and then we'll figure it out."
Looking around for a solution to my problem, I was forced to duck as the last of the ships loyal to Tapal Quarre crashed to the ground near us—forcing everyone to hit the deck. Even the stupid duel paused, which both fighters immediately took advantage of.
"Shit... One more left."
The last surviving Pursuer-class enforcement ship clearly belonged to the Death Watch team and was now hovering over the dueling ground. I had a rough idea of what would happen if the Death Watch leader lost, so I decided to take a risk and act as I was used to in my past life.
"Now you're going to get a taste of Democracy. Shaak'el, follow me, you'll be useful."
"Yes, sir."
Striking his chest, the battered Ukian marched briskly after me, helping me climb into the hatch of the downed transport. My goal lay closer to the belly, so we had to hurry.
And I only hoped that Jaster would hold out against the cheater for a few more minutes before I dealt with the ship.
Crawling through ruined corridors, a crumpled hangar, and ventilation that had survived by some miracle, I reached the gun turret. It would have been better, of course, to blast the Pursuer with the blaster cannons on the sides, but...
Grabbing the levers, I waved off Shaak'el, who often served as my loader and stepladder on this strange path, and quickly aimed at the hovering patrol ship.
"For Democracy, bitch!"
Aiming at the engine, I squeezed the trigger, letting four small lasers fly at the target with a rhythmic second-by-second pace. The first shot disoriented the enemy and scared everyone standing under the ship. All so confident, businesslike—warriors, you can tell. And they started scattering like a pack of womps. On their own two feet or jetpacks, they scattered in all directions while I continued to douse the ship with the cannon.
"A-A-A-A-A! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
I squeeze the handle of the laser cannon with a palm sweaty from excitement. My heart beats in the rhythm of battle, and adrenaline pours through my veins like a molten avalanche.
The first gas battery ran out. My hands move on their own, inserting a new one; I want more, I need more. Faster, more, more destructive! I need to shoot!
I raise the weapon to my shoulder, aim, and pull the trigger guard. When my fingers touch the trigger, a deafening hum erupts and two bright laser bolts burst from the barrel, leaving glowing trails behind.
This recoil is a powerful reminder that I am not just a man; I am a Helldiver.
Every shot brings a surge of joy, delight, and madness within me. How wonderful it is! To feel that you control a power that can crush an enemy's life. To end it irrevocably!
The barrels are glowing red. I shoot as I'm used to. In the war with Terminids and Automatons, there is no room for precision. You hit at maximum power, hard and painfully, so they remember that messing with you costs more than it's worth.
The stench of scorched metal and dripping, cracking paint penetrates the turret cabin through the broken armored glass.
I hear screams. So many of them.
The cannon barrels shift to the Mandalorians in black armor. A small group, standing out sharply against the rest. One of them has a sword. He's shouting something, pointing a finger at me...
Black armor. Red visors...
A hallucination pierced my ears—the roar of Automatons. A battle siren pounded my brain, taking me back to those distant times.
The color of the sword changes from black to red. One of the Mandalorians wants to launch a flare into the sky...
"Cursed piece of junk... You want to call for Reinforce. I'll show you the taste of freedom, goddammit!"
The twin blaster instantly jumps to the most proactive one.
Shot.
Shot!
SHOT!
Not even his legs are left of his body. The rest of the brothers began to scatter every which way, but I was already on guard. Fans of jetpacks always go for close combat... I remember. The first time I didn't know that—in exchange, a shitty Automaton wound my guts onto a retractable blade...
Continuing to fire the blaster cannon, I picked out the leader in the expensive armor, whose helmet shone with a red Visor. He was waving his shitty sword and shooting back, confident in his armor, but the first successful shot took off his leg.
What use is excellent armor if you're a weakling and your body falls apart easily?
Shot.
The sword flies out of his hand.
Shot.
A Death Watchman who ran to help falls onto his back, missing the upper part of his torso. And the others didn't even dare to intervene, taking cover behind buildings.
My rapid fire continued for a few more minutes before the barrels melted completely and became useless.
Breathing heavily, I leaned back in the chair, then surveyed the battlefield, seeing many bodies in black-and-yellow armor there.
"A familiarly shitty day."
***
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