Captain Malachi gazed out from the window of his bridge into the black expanse of space. It was beautiful, an infinite blackness, punctuated by brief pinpricks of light. Here, in the deep expanses, away from celestial bodies, there was nothing to see, save for the murky blackness of the vacuum. It was peaceful, far away from the war.

Behind him, bridge personnel sat before displays that radiated the bridge in golden, warm light, much like the sun of Super Earth, the homeworld that all upon the bridge owed fealty to. Large, blue banners marked with the globe ensign of the Federation called for alacrity and awareness for freedom, and large screens broadcast propagandistic messages in bright white letters. These kept the Captain grounded, and pulled him away from his desire to become lost in searching the blackness. There was an entire universe to liberate out there, and he was damn well going to do his part.

News flashes played across the federal network screen that bathed a small part of the bridge in blue light. Soundless images flickered across the screen, of explosions and mutilated bodies on farflung, alien landscapes. White letters played across the alert bar, declaring the billions of kills racked up in the name of democracy, victories over colony worlds held by the numerous, undemocratic, fascist enemies of mankind, as well as the latest pregnancy of some superstar who had failed to fill out her C-1 Perm. Whether or not she would be forced to take a Malthusian injection was the focus of ferocious debate in the Federation. It was a shame, Malachi supposed. She could have produced good soldiers for Super Earth.

Malachi commanded the “Sovereign Franchise”, a kilometer long cruiser bearing enough ordinance to liberate planets until they exploded, and carrying mankind’s deadliest weapon, a squad of four Helldivers. The Helldivers were the most humanitarian of Super Earth’s armed wings, but also the most brutal. The Cyberstani traitors insisted that this made no logical sense, but their degenerate propaganda made no difference to Malachi. The Helldivers had brought liberty and happiness to countless worlds over the corpses of millions of freedom hating tyrants, and Malachi was damned if that was not a good and humanitarian thing to do.

The Helldivers stood behind him now, hunched over a golden, glowing table that displayed dozens of contested systems across the galaxy, sector by sector. A hovering hologram showed the planet the squad was currently considering for deployment. Malachi was theoretically the one in charge, since he was the skipper, but the command Helldiver officer was ultimately the one who chose drop zones. It was Malachi’s job to get them there and deliver ordinance where necessary. It was an odd command structure, but one that afforded significant flexibility to Helldiver forces.  

The colonel in charge of the Helldive flicked the globe, moving it about to display frontline conditions and troop densities. The information updated on a minute-by-minute basis, declaring a friendly platoon wiped out to a man here, a tactical nuclear weapon deployed there, and so on.  The barrage of information showed a desert planet deadlocked in brutal stalemate fighting. This one battle alone saw an amount of ordinance deployed equivalent to the whole of Earth’s Second World War combined. It was a liberal usage of ammunition to reflect the absolutely free and liberal values of Super Earth and her people.  

“Killpoint Gamma is a point of only slight note. We do this as a matter of course,” Colonel Eisenhand Strachen gestured almost casually at an objective point that demanded the termination of two hundred hostiles, golden light throwing every scar and crag on his face into sharp relief.

His comrades chuckled, golden highlights on their black armour glinting in the bright light of the bridge. They were arrayed around the table in various positions of bored thoughtfulness. They were the epitome of mankind’s fighting expertise, and their manner in approaching what would typically be a suicide mission demonstrated their spirited resolve to preserve the flickering torch of liberty to the very end.

“Any word on collateral?” a young, fresh faced lieutenant asked.

Straken smirked, “Hostile rules of engagement, people. Gobi’s a freefire world, all non-Federation personnel are considered targets of opportunity. So yes, you can use the EAT-17s on unarmed combatants, Simmons.”

The lieutenant, Simmons, pumped his fist, looking happier than a kid in a candy store.

Gobi was a Cyborg fortress world, and had remained so for several months of brutal fighting between Federal and Secessionist forces that had cost almost thirty-five million hostile casualties and eighteen million friendly ones. The battle had warranted the world a level eight threat matrix classification and the nickname “Mongol Meatgrinder.” The situation, as such, was one that Super Earth command could no longer ignore, and thus necessitated the deployment of Helldiver units for hardpoint demolition to ensure the liberation of the planet, and by extension, the system. Democracy was at risk, and the planet had to be saved from its hate filled occupiers, even if everything on it was to die.

Strachen cleared his throat, before speaking in clear, unaccented English, showing his roots from Seatcouver, “We’re ready to begin, Captain.”

“Malachai to bridge, op commencing, prepare coordinates for jump.”

“Yes, sir, engaging engines.”

Malachi felt nausea briefly in his stomach as the drives spooled up for jump. Space and time was folding, and the effect on the human body was that of a brief moment of intense vertigo, and, as much as Malachi hated to admit it, fear. This was believed to be the result of the paradox of folding physical reality in on itself. Scientists assured that there were no health risks. Besides, any risks could be countered with drugs. If the scientists said it was so, it had to be true. The drives engaged, and suddenly, the ship was thrown forward, as evidenced by the stars blurring past it. Malachi counted down mentally, and the ship, once again, was in realspace. A mere five seconds had passed. Malachi once again gazed out of the observation plate.

The world down below seemed like a vision out of hell. It was a yellow grey sphere hovering in the empty blackness of space, bleached by what had to be countless years of intense sun. Massive columns of smoke shrouded a good quarter of the planet’s surface, and massive dust clouds, signifying the movement of mechanized columns, ran amok over the desert. Occasionally, bright pinpricks of light would flare against the surface of the planet, blossoming into seemingly tiny, mushroom shaped plumes of deterrence. Each one took several thousand lives.

It was a sight that had grown boring to the two most experienced members of Strachen’s Strikers. Colonel Straken and his second, Major Elias, had been on hundreds of drops, half of which were on worlds threat matrixed above level six. Lieutenant Simmons and Rogers, however, were replacement personnel, almost fresh out of training, and had at the highest, served on level four drops. To them, between the tactical nuclear weapon flares and tens of millions of casualties were a step up, if only slightly. They continued across brightly lit, iron coloured decks to the ready room below.

The ship ready room was a vast compartment, filled to the brim with weapons and ammunition of various kinds, from standard liberator assault rifles to anti-tank guns. The far end of the room opened up into a port, showing the planet below. On either side of the port lay drop pods, sealed shut, shining an almost golden colour in the hostile whiteness of the planet and its twin suns. Above each pod were banks of soon to be used pods fitted to be loaded into the launch chambers like machine gun belts.

The pods were only just large enough for small arms, some ammunition and grenades. Due to the nature of Helldiver deployments, the other pods were often used for orbital resupply drops. The pinpoint accuracy of the hellpods enabled rapid deployment of assets to assist the Helldivers. Straken made a beeline for the weapon rack. He grabbed a long barrelled bullpup from the rack. Sacrificing rate of fire for armour piercing ammunition and a higher calibre, the AR-20L Justice was designed to blow limbs off of enemies of the state, just like the courts did. Reaching up, Straken grabbed a bayonet and snapped it to his belt. Standard issue, the bayonet was a good twelve inches in length, and was more akin to a short sword than a knife.

“Okay, people, no slow burners,” Straken stated, referring to laser weapons. Although theoretically good at slagging targets, lasers were notoriously inefficient at penetrating cyborg plate.

He affixed his helmet, blue displays flickering across his vision, identifying IFF signatures, providing ammo counts and medical information for his squad. The suddenly ventilated oxygen that filled his mouth tasted cold, stale, metallic. It tasted like life. This was his whole life.

Straken dropped into his hellpod, the familiar claustrophobia of its black interior gave it the feeling of being a coffin. Straken was never a fan of this part of the job. It made “suicide mission” seem all too literal. A screen lit up, bathing the entire pod in bright, golden light. It announced that drop time was in one minute, and identified the loadout of his squad. Elias had brought about his MP-98 Knight, famous for its usage to quell thought criminals. Compact and fast firing, the Knight was known for its armour piercing stun rounds, which not only punched through solid walls of steel but would shock people. It was self defence at its finest. Simmons, for his part, brought along a standard Patriot assault rifle, a reliable weapon to boot. Rogers loaded up on a Breaker shotgun, with lacerating flechette round. One blast was capable of disembowelling people with the speed and wild abandon of a Bug, only with more democracy.

A catchy tune began playing through comm systems of Strachen’s helmet, one he recognized as the “Liberation March”. It was a tradition in Earth’s various armed branches to play music into combat. The tradition’s originator had  a habit of playing Ride of the Valkyries on the way down to planetfall. One of mankind’s greatest commanders, General Killgore was unfortunately killed by a stray napalm cluster. The Federal Forces continued to play music into combat in his honour.

“Helldivers! Prepare for drop!” The captain’s voice boomed into their earpieces.

Warning klaxons sounded as the airlock decompressed and the launch bay doors opened. The music reached a crescendo. The pods launched.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the death of Rigel Two,

We washed ourselves in Xenos blood, and all the traitors too,

We’re taking down the communist, screw by screw by screw,

Mankind liberates!

Gory, gory price of freedom!

Gory, gory price of freedom!

Gory, gory price of freedom!

Mankind liberates!

We’ll fight them long we’ll fight them hard, we’ll grind them to the dust,

We’ll kill and kill and kill and kill because Earth says we must,

We’ll wipe out all the aliens to end their putrid lust,

Mankind liberates!

Gory, gory price of freedom!

Gory, gory price of freedom!

Gory, gory price of freedom!

Mankind liberates!

And if in this pursuit of justice I should lose my life,

I want you to deliver this message to my loyal wife,

Tell her to mourn not; we’re stronger for the strife,

Mankind liberates!”