Raptor Aces

by Brian Bakos

  It was clear from the start that our attack on the slobe empire was a criminal enterprise. Aside from the fact that it seized territory which has never belonged to us, it also sought to enslave, if not outright exterminate, the population of the conquered areas.

  Those of us who knew the full scope of the Magleiter’s intent had our own rationalizations. The rest of our people had to make do with lies churned out by the propaganda machine – the absurd contentions that we were “defending ourselves” and “righting historical wrongs.”

  Worst of all was the claim that our foes were primitive subhumans that we could easily dominate and dispossess. We were the Master Race and could do all things! Ask any combat veteran how easy it was to dominate these “subhumans.”

  Our invasion was a naked grab for territory and resources, nothing else. And now it has backfired. Unless divine providence favors us with extraordinary dispensation, the enemy will roll over our defenses and exact terrible revenge upon the Fatherland. I pray for the success of the Empire’s eastern foes, but I know in my heart that they will fail, as we have. Then comes the reckoning.

  An objective reader of these papers will conclude that the only way to bring down the Empire was by using a two-pronged approach:

  1. A massive military campaign to destroy the enemy’s armed forces

  2. An outreach to the population to get them on our side

  Many of us in the military high command counseled this approach. We reasoned that, given the well-known brutality of the slobe regime, many people would welcome a change of government. We could play on the multi-ethnic nature of the Empire so as to swing important segments of the population into our camp. Even a modest improvement in their living conditions would have been enough to gain their loyalty.

  We lacked the resources for a prolonged war of attrition. Victory had to come fast, or not at all. And victory was impossible without help from the disaffected elements within the slobe empire.

  There is ample historical precedent for this approach. Consider the demise of the Roman empire. Any band of barbarian raiders crossing the frontiers was quickly joined by slaves fleeing Roman captivity and by other alienated persons, thus magnifying the intruders’ power. The internal contradictions of the empire brought it down.

  A similar fate overcame the Spartans when their oppressed population was liberated by the Thebans. The Spartan warrior elite simply faded away when deprived of its serfs. Also, consider what happened to the Aztecs of Mexico when their subjugated tribes joined the Spanish conquistadors. Cortez was a weak conqueror who relied upon the revolt of others to attain his ends, a stratagem that paid off brilliantly.

  To this must be added the fantastic hubris of the American Confederacy in provoking a war with the much stronger North while, at the same time, clutching the viper of slavery to its breast – millions of exploited inhabitants eager to join the Northern invaders at the first opportunity. It was only in the closing weeks of the conflict that the Confederacy hit upon the idea of freeing slaves who agreed to fight for it, but this half measure came far too late.

  The leader of the slobe empire, the so-called ‘Man of Iron,’ made no such errors. He responded to our invasion with an immediate reduction of oppressive measures against his own people. Political prisoners were let out and mobilized for battle. Appeals were made to religion, patriotism, ethnic pride. He promoted himself as a savior.

  These were far more attractive alternatives than what we offered to the population. For, from the beginning, the Magleiter insisted on a “war of annihilation.” We were to crush the enemy with unrelenting brute force. Any inhabitant of the slobe empire was a racial inferior who needed to be subjugated. Thus, NSP ideology trumped common sense.

  The results of this insane policy are obvious:

  The formerly disunited population rose up against us as one, creating a deadly partisan movement behind our lines. The resolve of the enemy’s regular forces stiffened, enabling them to rebound from their early defeats and overwhelm us. The slobe empire could, thus, take full advantage of its manpower superiority – estimated as being a good three to one.

  Worst of all, our soldiers became brutalized, turning into criminal accomplices of the regime. Mass murder, rape, and destruction of property became such common occurrences as to be scarcely noted.

  Were I the “true patriot and a man of valor” that the propagandists made me out to be, I would have put a bullet through the Magleiter’s head before this doomed enterprise ever got started. Now I can only pray that a better man than myself will perform this service for our people.

  May God protect the Fatherland!

  50. Avenger Omzbak

  Omzbak knew the enemy was dangerous now.

  The scouting report from Comrade #1 had been inconclusive. Number 1 had spotted four outsiders dressed in strange uniforms, boys really, hanging around an old wood cutters’ hut.

  It did not take a crystal ball to determine that these punks were enemy stragglers – support troops of some kind, probably. The Mag were scraping the bottom of their manpower barrel these days; underage and overage soldiers had become a common sight.

  The lads made a tempting target. Omzbak was of a mind to stage one last ambush before the enemy cleared out of this area and his Avenger band completely dispersed. But he was weary of all the killing. He knew from bitter experience that no amount of bloodshed could erase his pain.

  He decided to ignore them. Let the army handle stragglers; it’s what they were paid to do. But then a far more disturbing piece of news made its way to him. Another of his scouts reported finding Comrade 19’s body lying in the woods. She’d been stabbed through the heart and relieved of her weapons.

  So, these foreign boys were not so harmless after all. Omzbak was certain they were responsible for the killing. Didn’t one of them have a long-barreled rifle, like the weapon Comrade 19 prized so much? He’d doubtless obtained it when they killed her.

  Outrage boiled up in Omzbak’s heart, nearly choking him. Comrade 19 may have been a deserter, but she’d served loyally for an entire year, striking terror into the enemy. Her murder cried out for vengeance!

  Only eight members of his band remained. The others had either been killed fighting the Mag commando, or else they’d run off. No matter, Omzbak was confident these veterans would be more than enough to handle a few boys. That night, he led seven of them on a raid to the wood cutters’ hut.

  ***

  Omzbak disliked leaving only a single guard back at the hideout, two would have been better. But the way things were these days, he couldn’t rely on anyone to hold the fort without him. Now that the enemy was purged from these districts, the temptation to flee into the night was simply too great.

  Omzbak reasoned that a single man, alone and isolated in the hideout, would be less likely to take to his heels than two would be. One man’s fear and cowardice would play off the other one’s, and soon they would both run away together.

  Only Number 1 could be fully trusted, but he would never miss out on a chance to kill. Besides, Omzbak needed him at hand to help control the rest. Number 1’s glowering presence bringing up the rear would intimidate them into obedience.

  The Avengers drifted like a death vapor through the woods and marshlands, as they had done so many times before on other raids. Omzbak felt the old blood lust returning as they closed in on their quarry. Pure malice kept him moving in the dark.

  God damn them to hell! he kept repeating in his mind like a religious mantra. These Mag were all the same, regardless of their age. Every last one had to be glanked.

  The bullet wound in his thigh had not completely healed, and frequent stabs of pain accompanied his progress. Good, the discomfort kept his hate focused. He’d got the wound during the fight with the Mag commando. The bastards had caught them by surprise last week and succeeded in killing several Avengers.

  It was simply not possible to camp permanently in the hideout. The psychological pressure overwhelmed his
men eventually. The women could endure it better, for some reason, but nobody could stand the hideout for long in one stretch. So, they’d been at one of their above ground camps when the Mag caught them.

  But the enemy had taken heavy losses, too. Omzbak grinned at the recollection of ‘Egelai,’ as the enemy medic had called one of the wounded men. Omzbak had surprised them in the bushes. After dispatching the medic with a bullet through the head, Omzbak used his practiced butcher’s hand to gut Egelai like a hog. He could still hear the s.o.b. squealing out the last of his life!

  Number 1 interrupted Omzbak’s bloody trip down memory lane.

  “We’re almost there, Chief,” he said. “I first caught sight of them from this spot.”

  Omzbak grunted. “Comb the area for sentries.”

  “Aye, Chief.”

  Number 1’s voice conveyed genuine pleasure, as if he was about to attend a birthday party in his honor. He’d certainly come a long way since the time when he was the meek village cobbler, drunk more often than not. He’d become a lean, hard killing machine who hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in nearly two years.

  Omzbak and Number 1 were marked men; everyone understood this. They both had so much blood on their hands and had outraged the central partisan command so much that there was no going back for them. The others must have thought they could blend into the wider world and resume normal lives. Omzbak had his doubts on that score.

  They were nearing the objective now.

  They’d found no sentries, and the cabin itself was dimly illuminated with flickering light. The worm-eaten door wasn’t even secured. This was going to be like spearing fish in a barrel!

  Omzbak considered lobbing grenades through the windows, but he preferred to see the faces of the people he was killing. The unholy rage was upon him; he crashed his bulk through the door, spraying submachine gun fire –

  The place was empty, except for a few blankets stuffed with leaves to simulate human forms. Two candles sputtered in the corners, and a single word was gouged into the floor half a meter high:

  JUSTICE!

  The letters had an oddly chilling effect, even on Omzbak’s stone heart. He and his men stood around in grim silence gazing at the floor, as if additional words might suddenly appear by magic. Omzbak ground his teeth.

  So, he thought, the Avengers have attracted avengers of our own.

  He was not surprised; it had a kind of symmetry. Then again, this admonition could be just youthful bravado with no serious intent behind it.

  He’d inflicted much bloodshed over the past two years – not all of it justified or necessary. Omzbak understood this now, but when he’d been in a killing frenzy, nothing could get through to him. Like the time they’d captured that enemy pilot, when he’d almost had a mutiny on his hands ...

  “Let’s get out of here!” he ordered.

  Whatever might be behind the word on the floor, Omzbak knew that he was treading on a path of no return. In his mind, he journeyed back to its beginning.

  51. Nightmare Recollections

  Omzbak strode purposefully along the forest trail toward home. His mission to the neighboring village had not been successful, but it was still good to be a strong man in the prime of life, walking in the fresh air. Ordinarily, he’d have brought his son along, but with things the way they were these days, it was better that he remain home to keep an eye on his mother and the young ones.

  The boy would make a fine butcher someday, following in his papa’s footsteps. Omzbak was a third generation butcher, highly respected in his village. His meats were top quality, his scales gave honest weight, and his sausages – made from traditional family recipes – were renowned throughout the whole district.

  So well did his neighbors think of him that twice they’d prevailed upon him to serve as village headman. He’d enjoyed the largely ceremonial job and got on well with the Party cadre who was the real power in town.

  But times were difficult now. The war had brought a hard edge to everything. The occupation forces were commandeering food supplies for themselves, and good meat was getting hard to find. So, he’d jumped at the opportunity when he learned that a farmer in another village had prime hogs for sale.

  If he could close a deal, he planned to hire wagons to transport the animals back to his home village. He knew that he could make a huge profit on the pork but reminded himself that the war would be over someday. He did not want to be vilified as a profiteer who took advantage of his neighbors in their time of need.

  When Omzbak arrived at the point of sale, however, he discovered that the hogs had already been requisitioned by the occupation forces. The poor farmer could only shrug with regret for the profit they’d both lost. There was nothing for Omzbak to do but turn around and go back. He’d left home shortly after dawn, so there was plenty of daylight remaining for the 15 kilometer hike.

  He did not wish to be out after dark. Bands of guerrilla fighters were organizing in the area, and they operated at night. Anyone found outside after curfew without official leave was liable to be shot. The growing effectiveness of these partisan groups was evidenced by severed telegraph lines, blown up railway tracks, and by the summary executions of enemy collaborators.

  Most recently, partisans had attacked the Mag garrison at Railway Junction K, inflicting heavy casualties before melting back into the woods. This bold action had put the whole district on edge. Everybody wondered what would happen next.

  Omzbak wasn’t too worried about violating curfew, though; it was his son that troubled his thoughts. The boy was rapidly approaching military age. All he talked about was running off to join the army, or else finding a partisan unit where he could perform his “patriotic duty.”

  What could Omzbak say about this? He hated the old government and was among those who welcomed its demise. Things had become intolerable over the past few years as the authorities appropriated more and more food from the peasants to pay for the crash industrialization program. Anyone who resisted the thefts or the forced collectivization of farm land ended up in a labor camp – or worse.

  He’d hoped that the invaders would liberate them from this oppressive yoke and improve the lives of ordinary people. After all, the foreign army hailed from the much admired ‘Golden West’ with its high level of culture and technology – the land of automobiles, stylish clothing, and flush toilets.

  But things were starting to work out differently. The Mag were proving themselves to be cruel masters.

  Of course, strict policies had to be followed during wartime, but the Mag seemed to be crossing the line of military necessity more and more often. What was a virile young man like his son to do? What would Omzbak have done during that stage of his life?

  He’d always been one to get along with others and avoid conflict; it was good for business. His imposing bulk, strengthened by years of muscling around animal carcasses, had been sufficient to deter any potential aggressors. But things were radically different when he was a young man. The world had been turned upside down since the invasion ... literally.

  He shuddered at the memory of his journey into ‘the Barren.’ What on God’s earth had motivated him to visit that cursed place?

  He’d always had a native curiosity, but the small world of his butchering trade had provided little opportunity to indulge it. After the great battle had devastated the area south of his village, though, Omzbak could not restrain himself.

  He’d never witnessed an act of violence more serious than a tavern brawl in his whole life. What would the aftermath of such a huge killing rampage look like, he wondered? Some devilish need to know took hold of him.

  So, one day when business was slow, he’d left his son in charge of the shop and had journeyed to the wasteland alone.

  The moment he’d stepped out of the forest and into the Barren, an overpowering sense of dread came over him. The place seemed to be not of this earth. The vast explosion of hate, violence, and suffering that occurred there seemed to h
ave summoned up forces of evil from the nether regions.

  All right, you’ve seen it, a voice inside his mind had said, now go back!

  But he couldn’t go back. Some evil power seemed to have him in its grip, leaving him no more freewill than a side of beef hanging in his store room possessed. He continued walking through the ravaged landscape like a robot without full control of himself.

  The place was void, a null entity. Omzbak’s simple vocabulary could not possibly describe the environment, only that it was wrong.

  Not a single living thing survived around him; a deadly silence filled the air. Hardly any evidence remained that a battle had occurred here. The blasted war machines had been hauled away and the corpses of men removed for burial – at least some of them. Omzbak sensed the presence of others lurking beneath the surface, eager to suck him down into their realm.

  But that was just his imagination playing tricks, wasn’t it?

  Were he a more articulate man, he might have said the battle here had ripped open a kind of portal to another world ... but not exactly. More like it had parsed the evil out of the wider reality. The area was a distillation of wickedness.

  A donkey had kicked his head when was a young boy, which had left his eyes permanently out of alignment. With both eyes open, his vision was a slightly blurred double image. When he was using his butchering implements, he always pulled his cap down over one eye so that he could see clearly trough the other one.

  Both his eyes were open now, and they relayed disjointed visions. Ghosts seemed to be observing him on the periphery, fleeting images moving just beyond actual sight. He resisted the urge to pull his cap down, as he wanted to experience everything the Barren had to offer.

  Then he saw a blurry spot directly ahead, something that shouldn’t have been there. He closed one eye and the blur disappeared. He opened both eyes and the blur reappeared. He repeated the experiment with his other eye, identical result.

  Go home, you damn fool!

  But Omzbak was too fascinated by the spectacle to break off now. He approached the blur like a moth heading toward a candle flame. The blur vanished. He turned left and took two steps, the blur reappeared. He repeated this oblique process until, by trial and error, he gained the entryway. He took a final step into the Barren’s interior ...