Embrun Chateau, Agincourt. Three days after Libertonian Invasion.
_______For You have girded me with strength for battle; You have subdued under me those who rose up against me. ___________- Psalms 18:39 The Bible.
"...et egent gloriam dei.”
The last hostile slumped to the ground, a hole where his torso used to be. Theresa Mignard glanced up from the pile of rock she had been using as cover. A brief look around confirmed that all hostiles had been neutralized. Her helmet’s HUD helpfully confirmed this fact, and she noted with dim pleasure that her squad was mostly intact.
She placed her laser rifle into a magnetic lock on her back, where it joined a compressed sniper rifle, and took up her pistol in her hand. It never hurt to be prepared.
“l’execeteur.”
The voice did not startle her, she had seen the squad leader approaching. Technically, she was the squad leader, for Mignard assumed immediate command of whatever unit she chose to work with. It was tradition on Leeds at this point. She turned to face him, and struggled to recall his name. Guillaume Dubois, her HUD supplied helpfully.
“Dubois. What’s our situation?” She said.
The slight, whiplash thin captain’s face was obscured by a helmet, and Mignard did not care at this point. They were all children to be protected, to be kept safe from the darkness that had set foot on this world to claim them. He gave a gentle nod, inviting her to follow him. She moved to follow, the servos in her mechanical legs making the tiniest of noises as an objection, and her half-cape flapped behind her.
“Lines are holding for now. 27th and 41st threw the enemy advance back at Bourgogne-Jallieu. The main problem lies with Point Channel, my lady.” The Captain kicked a Libertonian corpse out of the way, making his way into their makeshift headquarters at Embrun Chateau, as the area was called.
Once inside, he went to the makeshift CIC and raised a holographic map of the region. Aides ran around the place at a frantic pace, relaying orders and information. This was one of the small hubs from where the Gallic Defense coordinated itself.
“Point Channel is the ruins of a skyscraper, with about twenty stories still remaining. I believe it used to be the local Bowex HQ.” The Captain shrugged apologetically, realising that was unimportant. “The line of sight it commands makes it an excellent defensive position. Normally, we’d call in an orbital strike to take it out, but our fleets are busy.”
Mignard had folded her arms, her cyber-arm providing a stark contrast to her one good arm, which was enclosed in an armor suit. “How long ago did we lose it?”
Dubois sighed. “Three hours. We sent in the 38th to try to repulse them before the Libertonians entrenched themselves, but they failed. If anyone from their unit survived, they’ll be stuck in very hostile territory.”
“I’ll save them,” Mignard said firmly. Dubois did not argue the point, he knew her reputation.
“..That being said, We need to retake Point Channel quickly before the Libertonians set up operations there, or it’ll be very costly to remove them without an orbital strike.”
Mignard shook her head. “They are very busy. Odds for air support?”
Dubois shook his head. “Low. They’re fully engaged with the Libertonian 10th fleet, who are landing marines.If they spared a wing, that’d just mean another point somewhere else gets lost. We’ll have to do it from the ground.”
Mignard sighed. The Glory of God is denied by all those who would stand to lose from it…
“Bien. What are we expecting at Point Channel?” She queried.
“Difficult to say. It’s unlikely that they’ll have reinforced the area with more than a platoon this early. We’ve repulsed two sorties from Point Channel, they were probing strikes and involved no more than a squad.”
Mignard nodded. “I’ll take your squad and the 261. Your squad will push from the east.” She gestured at the holo-map. “The ruins hold fairly thick till about a hundred metres out, I want them to draw Libertonian attention but stick to cover. Go with them, keep them together.”
Dubois nodded. “And the 261?”
“South approach. It’s flatland all the way to Point Channel, so they will wait for my signal to attack. I want them to carry what explosive charges we still have, we’ll bring Channel down if holding it is unfeasible. Girard will lead them.”
Dubois glanced at Mignard, and his stance screamed uneasiness. “And you, l’execeteur?”
Mignard cocked her head at him. “I’ll head straight into the building, clear it out. I want no casualties, so stay as safe as you can be, do you understand?” Her voice brooked no argument.
She saw Dubois’ composure crack before him almost audibly. “B-but, my lady. We’re expecting possibly a platoon in there. You want to go inside alone?”
Dubois could not see it, but inside her helmet Mignard was smiling beatifically. “For the Lord loves the just and will not forsake his faithful ones.Wrongdoers will be completely destroyed; the offspring of the wicked will perish,” She recited. “Psalm 37. Would you question the word of our lord?”
“But surely it would be safer to take a squa-”
“The Lord will not allow those who fight with his holy light to fall. I’ll be fine, Dubois. Keep your men safe.” She waved her mechanical hand at him. “Besides, you’d find it hard to keep up with me.”
Dubois’ shoulders drooped in resignation, and he nodded. “Very well then, we begin in twenty minutes, “ Mignard said, turning away to walk out. Her half-cape with the Garde Royale insignia on her back flared momentarily, struck by a brief gust of wind. And then it returned to covering her back, the last piece completing a combination of chrome and flesh that had never been previously seen in the Colonies.
16th Park Street, Agincourt. Three days after Libertonian Invasion.
Mignard made her silent way through the broken streets of Leeds. A signboard, half bent due to causes unknown informed her helpfully that this used to be 16th Park Street. Rubble and detritus covered the road, with hollowed out husks of what used to be storefronts on either side.
She was not in a hurry yet, choosing to merely jog and duck between various walls to keep herself out of enemy vision. A year of working with this mish-mash of cybernetics and flesh had taught her how to conserve her advantages. Right now, running at minimal capacity, she was operating well within the normal human baseline. Only sensory augments needed to be on at all times.
She’d always hated the calm before the storm. Any period of waiting between carrying out her holy tasks was an affront to her, and sent her into dark thoughts. Mostly, they brooded on the past, and what could’ve been. She touched her half-cape, which she had now tied securely to her waist as well to prevent it flapping about.
Garde Royale.
There was a time when Mignard had been distinguished, but indistinguishable.
Mignard is a good soldier, her loyalty to the cause is beyond question.
Send her to Agincourt. She’ll make a good leader for the Royale Armee Units on the ground.
And so she had went, serving as she could. She’d had friends then, and comrades. Hopes of returning to New Paris a hero, decorated, honored and respected. Secure in the knowledge that she had done her duty as dictated by God. She’d kept a Bible in those days, a much-loved worn copy, earmarked and frayed in some places but maintained with meticulous care.
“Christi crux est mea lux…” She whispered to herself in those days.
A stray grenade had changed all that.
Mignard was startled out of her thoughts by a muffled cry, almost too low to be heard. She stopped, looking around to find the source. After a moment, she placed it as coming from the abscesses of a ruined storefront.
She powered her way through a makeshift barricade and saw a man slumped on the wall opposite her. She closed the distance quickly, and the man made no move apart from groaning feebly. Mignard reached for the pistol at her hip, but one glance at the soldier made her relax. The wounded man wore the camo armor with the Fleur De Lis embossed along one breast. Her Helmet’s HUD confirmed the details mere moments later.
Lieutenant Henri Duval. 38th Infantry.
The man looked to be in bad shape. Mignard noted three wounds on him, concentrated near his stomach. He had kept his helmet on, but his head was slumped on his chest. He’s lost a lot of blood.
The wounds were severe, but not fatal. However, it would be difficult to get him to a place where medics could take care of him. And time was of the essence if Point Channel was to be taken back. Mignard had no doubts in her mind.
She reached for a stim-injection in her pocket, and pushed it into the man’s forearm. After a moment, his groaning subsided and he looked up slowly.
“Who….what…” He said, blinking and looking at Mignard, before realization set in.
16th Park Street, Agincourt. Three days after Libertonian Invasion.
The reinforcements had arrived too late. Lieutenant Henri Duval felt it in his gut, among the bullets. Three neat little holes, three blows that had felt no worse than a flurry of poorly-caught punches in the ring, and a steady, creeping pain that had swelled until it became his entire world.
He barely felt the injector slide through his skin.
There was a sharp, spreading pain in his arm, and Duval’s heart drummed in his chest. Within a few beats, like a boat powering away from the shore, the pain had receded and he forced his head up to see his rescuer.
A figure clad in patchwork armour crouched next to him, injector clutched in a chrome-plated limb stained with the dust and grime of battle. Steel poked over one armoured shoulder, a sniper rifle’s barrel, black as the void. An opaque visor hid the soldier’s eyes, but Duval knew who she was.
Every Gallic on Leeds did.
“L’execeteur.” He breathed, coughed at the motion. Duval raised a hand to cover his mouth, and when he bought it away there was blood on it. “The Libertonians… My platoon. We held as long as we could.”
The figure in front of him nodded gently, the chrome arm reaching down and pushing him upright with surprising candor. Her voice held no warmth however. “Any other survivors?” She asked.
“I don’t know. My comms operator went down in the initial assault.” Duval’s voice was flat, dull. Without the pain, it was like speaking in a dream. Disconnected. Unreal. “We had a perimeter around the Point. First squad was closest to the advance, and they called in the contact just before I came under fire. We didn’t expect them so close. Comms dropped, and we tried to break through to the Third, in the building. I… I don’t know what happened to the rest of the Second.”
Mignard listened carefully, occasionally turning her head this way and that. “You did your best, soldat. We’re pushing to retake the point now. Do you have any idea of what we should expect there?”
Duval managed a nod. “First squad reported an infantry platoon advancing through the ruins before we lost contact, and we took indirect an hour before. Nothing since. We figured it was orbital. They must’ve had someone else coming in from the south to get an angle on my element. Maybe squad-strength. We didn’t get a good look.” The Lieutenant paused, coughed again. “Have you found anyone else, my lady?”
Mignard shook her head, and turned away for a few minutes, apparently relaying what she had learned to the other squads. Then she turned back to face Duval, and her posture was rigid, a coiled spring ready to jump. “The treachery of Judas continues to claim the lives of the true followers of Christ, and I cannot be everywhere,” She whispered, crouching so she was level with the wounded Lieutenant, and chanted.
“For he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer.” She stood up. “Romans Thirteen Four.” She shook her head again. “I will destroy them, Duval. But first, we need to get you to safety.”
“I feel fine.” Duval let a hand fall to his rifle, still lying where it had fallen. Not strictly true but, someone beneath the anesthetic haze, a phrase was clamoring for attention. Honneur et patrie. Valeur et discipline. What sort of officer would he be if he left? “They’re my platoon. I won’t leave them twice. Let me come, my lady.”
Mignard shook her head. “I’ll save who remains. And it will start with you. The Shepherd will not leave his sheep behind.” There was a faint whirr as the servos in her legs and left arm fired, and she picked Duval up easily, slinging the wounded man across her shoulder, and started running at a breakneck speed towards what she knew were friendly lines. She quickly pushed ahead to a speed of sixty miles an hour. It was all Duval could do to keep his mask from peeling away from his face.
Scarred city blocks passed in a blur beneath Mignard’s boots. It was only a brief two minutes before she was setting him down on the ground in an indescript trench, and already talking to another Armee individual. It was a brief discussion, ending with her gesturing at Duval and walking off.
Some of the veterans moved like tigers. Duval had seen them, all carefully directed aggression and predatory motion. Mignard didn’t move like that. She stepped into the fog the way a professional athlete stepped onto the field to face an amateur. All calm, collected confidence. Mignard didn’t move like a soldier. She moved like an avenging angel, fire blazing on her sword and in her eyes.
Duval watched her until the glare of chrome vanished in the smog.