The Red Light of Lebensraum (5)

Trench. The word became commonplace in human history starting with the war called World War I in 1914. Of course, once humanity's frame of reference shifted from Earth to the cosmos, they started calling it the First Intra-Earth Civil War. So what exactly is a trench? Simply put, it's a defensive structure dug into the ground ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to endure enemy artillery fire while conducting combat. Weaker than a fortress plastered with expensive new-material alloys and advanced concrete bunkers, but better than bare ground—it's a place where you literally build walls of human bodies and feed them into the grinder.

The trench line encircling the Governor-General's Office was much the same. This particular trench had originally been a factory drainage ditch. They'd hastily smashed, carved, and cleaned the industrial wastewater channel—two meters wide and 1.5 meters deep—that ran through the 14th Industrial District's factory grounds. For forty years, metal cutting oil and coolant had flowed through it, leaving thick black sediment on the bottom and a stench that clung to everything. That was the true nature of this ditch. And now, a trench.

"Hoo... Your Majesty the Emperor..."

Erisa Karan leaned back against the drainage ditch wall and offered a prayer to her god. In her right hand, she gripped a massive military greatsword about sixty centimeters long, forged from Giant maintenance cutting alloy—powerful enough to slice through Eldra reinforced skin. In her left, a large-caliber automatic pistol for security force officers, chambered in 12.7mm.

About two hundred worker militiamen crowded the trench. Welders, machinists, assemblers, haulers. In peacetime, these folks wouldn't have been draft fodder, but times were desperate now. They'd overthrown the oppressor, only for that oppressor to collude with the xenos and sell out humanity. What had started as a revolution for change had devolved into a fight for survival, and that was more than enough to instill a kind of "hatred" in the worker representatives of the Workers' National Salvation Committee.

The xenos had always been shit, but now they were even shittier. Without them, they could've smoothly completed the revolution, pledged loyalty to the God-Emperor, and gotten back to hard work. But no—the xenos had to block that and try turning them into cheap meat for the grinder. How could anyone not be pissed? That's why so many representatives, like Erisa Karan, wanted to grab rifles and greatswords, hunker in the trenches, eat the same shitty rations, and fight together. And most couldn't.

"Irina. Cut the bullshit and grab a pen."

"Ah, no, Uncle Serov! I—!"

"You're better with a pen than a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gun. That's what we want. We've lived our lives; we want to hand the next generation a better Forge at least. You'll have to work hard for it."

A good number of the representatives were young and hot-blooded loyalists, so the laborers gripping rifles in the trench understood—they represented the future. Without young people carrying the torch, the fight would lose all meaning. So they half-forced the reps to take up pens instead. Erisa had nearly met the same fate, but her role as chief secretary wasn't just fancy words on paper, so she'd been ignored.

Thus, everyone layered bulletproof vests stolen from the Governor-General's Office over their factory jumpsuits, gripped their rifles, and waited in the trench for the xenos who might come at any moment.

And in the midst of those two hundred stood one man.

"Ahh... this isn't it."

Nikolai Stern. A 45-year-old major in the Governor-General's security force, now "incorporated" into the Workers' National Salvation Committee. Behind Major Stern stood two militiamen with rifles at the ready. The muzzles weren't aimed at him, but their blatant glares screamed intimidation.

So why had he been "incorporated"? Simple: the committee lacked officers early on. To fill the gap, they used surrendered security officers with command experience, made them swear "loyalty oaths," and shipped them to the most dangerous trenches for penance. Stern was one such officer.

He'd been a tactics instructor in the security force, making him a godsend to the laborer militia. Someone had to tell them, "Aim the gun this way, not that way." Stern understood his situation perfectly. Do well and survive; fail and die by enemy or ally hand. In this death-or-life dilemma, humans flail to survive, so he aimed to last till the end—which meant victory was his only path. Clear choices left no room but to give his all.

"We need to divide the firing sectors," Stern said. "First Platoon covers the 30-to-60-degree frontal arc, Second Platoon—"

"Comrade."

A militiaman interrupted. "What's a firing sector?"

"...It means dividing the directions we shoot."

"Ah, just say that then. We're all workers here, comrade. Military jargon flies over our heads."

Stern's eye twitched in irritation, but thinking of who these people were calmed him quick, smile intact. Best not dwell on how the muzzles at his back were fine motivators for that smile.

"Got it. Then, First Platoon shoots only toward that factory smokestack. Second Platoon, only toward those tank wrecks. No overlapping."

"Why?"

"Overlaps leave gaps, and enemies slip through."

"Ah, makes sense. You explain it simple, and it clicks right away."

Erisa could feel Stern crying inside. Pity stirred in her watching the ex-security tactics instructor struggle to explain "divide shooting directions" to laborers, but Stern staying alive to command mattered more—and for sinners like him, this was the only path to redemption. So she ignored the sadness.

"Comrade Stern."

Erisa said, "You're doing great. Keep it up."

"...Yes, Chief Secretary Comrade."

Stern bowed his head. Humans must be born for inexplicable revolutions, Erisa thought. At least she did.

The trench atmosphere felt less like a battlefield and more like a religious rite. Erisa had intended it that way. For welders and assemblers to fight Eldra regulars, they needed something.

Humanity had warred with these pointy-ears and countless other alien races for less than half a century, piling up oceans of hate. But hate alone wasn't enough. If grit sufficed, humans would've conquered the galaxy by now.

So what filled the gap? Courage. And that courage came from faith. The strongest faith on this planet? None other than the Emperor.

A holographic image of the Emperor's face adorned the trench wall, beside excerpts from Erisa's own The Emperor with a Human Face.

Before battle, the militiamen read these aloud or in their minds.

"His Majesty is human!"

"He reads letters with human hands!"

"He weeps with human eyes!"

Two hundred laborers with rifles shouting in unison from the drainage trench was objectively bizarre, subjectively chilling, and utterly sincere to those involved. Major Stern felt a chill down his spine but kept quiet. Honestly, what else was there to believe in?

And just yesterday, an angel had descended from the heavens. A 50km-long battleship pierced the atmosphere, wiping out the Eldra ground forces' command in one go. The Fifth Fleet's Pandora, nickname "Blade of the Stars," flagship of Selene Astraea.

The shock paralyzed Eldra command temporarily. With the HQ physically erased, the militia exploited the chaos for a counterattack. They pushed back bewildered Eldra units without orders, forcing the enemy— who had advanced to within 2km of the Governor-General's Office—back to 5km out.

But everyone knew it was just buying time. Eldra were smart. Their millennia-old civilization wasn't for show; within six hours of HQ annihilation, junior officers rebuilt the chain of command. Pretty quick recovery, hence the 5km buffer.

And numerical superiority still favored Eldra. Of the initial 50,000 ground troops, Pandora's strafing erased about 8,000, leaving 42,000—plus reinforcements confirmed inbound. They stopped counting.

Outgunned, outtrained, out-equipped, outnumbered. Their only edges: terrain knowledge, fearless madness, and hate. Fueled by the God-Emperor's divine engine and hatred as oil. Eyes blazed with venom.

Before the fight, Erisa addressed the workers from the trench.

"Comrades. Look at the sky."

Two hundred heads lifted. Forge's red sky and smoggy dusk. But beyond the horizon, Pandora's wreckage loomed—its 50km hull impaled in the earth.

"His Majesty the Emperor's angel descended personally to save us. From the heavens. To sink countless xeno ships and lighten our burden by coming down herself."

Erisa's voice trembled, but conviction rang through.

"With the angel here, His Majesty watches. Us. This planet. This trench. This ground we bleed to hold!"

Light sparked in the militiamen's weary, fear-glazed eyes. Faith. Or something like it.

"For the Emperor!" Erisa shouted.

""FOR THE EMPEROR!!""

Two hundred voices made the trench walls rumble. Stern lost himself in the sight, only snapping back to realize he'd raised his fist, cheering along. Humans crave belief in the face of death, and Stern was no exception.

The lull shattered as distant artillery rumbled. Orbital barrages from Eldra ships in orbit and curved fire from ground artillery batteries hit simultaneously.

Boom—!

Explosions flipped the earth around the trench; dirt and concrete shards arced skyward like rain. Then came the smell. Sweet yet nauseating, like rotten fruit.

"...This smell?"

Gas.

"Gas masks!! Everyone, gas masks!!!"

Erisa's shout prompted donning of looted masks from the armory—short supply, covering only two-thirds, and poorly maintained on this backwater world. Better than nothing; the rest soaked sleeves in water and wrapped faces.

Erisa scanned around in her mask. "Worst case."

Pale green mist rose under the red sky, pooling in the trench lows as gas flowed low.

"Urgh!!! Cough—hack?!"

The maskless suffered quick. They endured on willpower, but coughs turned to phlegm, phlegm to retching, retching to convulsions, then hematemesis—vomiting flesh and mucosa. Yet they held. For a better Forge for the next generation.

Stern's mask sucked too, but seeing his two guards maskless with piss-and-water rags stirred odd guilt. "Damn... what the hell are they sending now?"

Erisa peered through binoculars at the kill zone ahead. Then saw them charging the open ground.

"...What the hell?"

Dust cloud at first. But four legs at insane speed, bodies slightly larger than humans. Sharp teeth, claws, ironclad hides. Eldra combat bioweapons: "Butchers." Dozens pouring from the gas fog like a wolf pack, claws shredding earth in a frenzy.

"M-machine guns!! Open fire!!!"

Stern yelled seeing them too. Twin heavy MGs on the flanks spat fire. 19mm rounds crossed the kill zone, but black-and-white armored hides deflected them.

"Won't penetrate! It won't penetrate!!"

The gunner screamed. First Butcher crossed in under 30 seconds, then second, third.

Thud—!

The first leaped into the trench. Splash—! The 3m monster hit the 1.5m ditch, spraying blood, sewage, mud. It lunged at the nearest militiaman.

"Wh-what?!"

He fired wildly, but rifle rounds couldn't faze what shrugged off 19mm. Crunch—! A scream. Jaws snapped midsection; the man's body split torso from legs in seconds. Ripped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠apart alive.

Thud—! Second and third followed. More poured in; the trench became hell.

"Damn..."

Erisa felt no fear. Hope the Emperor would come. She raised her greatsword overhead and charged the second Butcher.

Thump—!

Mounting its back, she stabbed the sword into the thinner armor gap at the dorsal plate and joints. Giant alloy blade pierced Eldra armor seams; the beast roared.

Bio-screech and mechanical siren blended in indescribable agony as it thrashed to shake her. Erisa clung, driving deeper.

—Kweeeek!!!

It collapsed, unable to endure. Erisa leaped off, yanking the blade. Shloosh—!

"Hoo..."

She wiped gushing blood on her left forearm, eyed the Butchers staring back.

"Long live the Emperor..."

The Butchers had churned the trench. Erisa, who'd slain most alone, was exhausted. Hands skinned raw, mask lost sometime—blood streamed from nose, mouth, eyes. Skin flayed and torn everywhere, not just her; all were mummified in ragged bandages staunching the flow.

In madness and absurdity, she'd fought hard. And won. Post-assault, her greatsword bore seven beasts' blood. Pistol empty. Trench littered with Butcher remains and mangled comrades.

Silence fell briefly. Then it broke.

Ruuuuumble—!

Massive, majestic engine roars. ...We have almost no vehicles. Unmanned zone ahead. Erisa wiped her bloodied binoculars crudely, peered through gore-smeared lenses.

"...They're here."

Beyond gas fog, Eldra armored vehicles advanced in echelon. Sleek silver hulls hovering slightly, turret energy weapons charging. Eldra infantry followed: tall frames, silver combats, superior masks—long ears poking sides.

160 trench defenders left. Thousands opposite. Numbers screamed clear: Impossible...

Erisa's hands shook. Right on sword, left on empty pistol. She looked around. Militiamen's faces.

Why don't they run? Like yesterday. With that approaching. She knew why she didn't. Same reason for them. Better future. Planet a battlefield now; lose, and no future.

Erisa exhaled. "Haa..."

A sigh. Then prayer. "Your Majesty the Emperor. Have mercy on us."

Regripped sword. Reloaded pistol. Climbed trench lip.

And shouted. "Ammo and weapons near gone, but one thing remains: loyalty. As loyalists, we must show His Majesty our planet still faithful, still believes!"

With that, sword high: "All bayonets!!"

They grinned through blood-vomit, fixed bayonets. Stern too.

"The dead attacking—that's the scariest tale. Comrades, show the pointy-ears human cruelty!"

""LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!!!""

The dead prepared assault. "Charge—!"

Before ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she finished, the sky split. Beams of light stabbed Forge's red canopy.

Thud—!

Energy rounds poured top-down on Eldra armor. Boom—! Thud!! Chain explosions vaporized dozens of vehicles.

"Wh-what...?"

Erisa's heart raced. "Wh-who? From where?"

Skyward for source—something fell. Not shells or energy bolts. Mechanical.

Crash—!

Heavy, thudding rhythm: thump-thump-thump, three-stage disassembly. Core landed, shaking earth. 7m biped Giant.

"Holy...!"

Clutched large-caliber autocannon, shoulder missile pods. Promised victory's majesty awed her.

Giant spun cannon on Eldra infantry, unleashing. 40mm AP rounds at dozens-per-second shredded them like leaves. Front hatch opened; cockpit woman's voice boomed amplified.

"Found the client? I'm here! My little bro says he needs me—what can I do!!!"

She peeked head out, grinned at Erisa. "Leave the rest to us."

Hatch shut. Dropships followed. Giants and Imperial Marines spilled out. Opposite sky, assault shuttles low-fly, rear ramps dropping paratroops in droves.

Trench militia gawked at the miracle sky. Erisa shouted skyward.

"The Emperor's angel has come!!"

Cheers filled trench. Morale soared heavenward; bloodied militiamen fixed bayonets, surged out charging.

Erisa's strength failed; knees buckled. Sword and pistol slipped free. Knees hit mud; do-slathered bandages spared her eyes' sight.

And she saw.

"Ahh... Your Majesty the Emperor."

The great God-Emperor, standing proud on the shuttle's open deck. Thud—! His descent proved: xenos slain en masse were the "nicest," dying for him. He punished them personally. Ecstasy for Erisa.

Tiny doubt she'd flogged herself for—hands gripped filthy earth tight...

"Hic..."

Erisa's struggle succeeded.