Mission accomplished, Elahi supposed, watching the MOAB transport streak toward the ground.
The changeling infiltrator still wore First Lieutenant Bentley's skin; indeed, for all intents and purposes, she
was Bentley. She performed his duties with the same efficiency
he would have, tracking Fort Imperium's supplies and casualties as they fell and rose, respectively. She was calm under pressure, the perfect model of a disciplined Garrison Adjutant, keeping meticulous records of every expended shell and every wounded soldier. Until she heard the transmission, of course. That was when her Mawite brain snapped back to attention. That was when the words "target of opportunity" crossed a mind twisted by the Brotherhood.
<"Gorman to Lance One! All artillery-pieces resting, sir. Ammo-stores are officially dry on all counts.">
<"Good job, Lance Four! Return to the command centre at the double! Lance One out!">
At this point, with the guns of Lance Four dry, there was perhaps limited tactical value attached to Lieutenant Gorman. But that was only in
this battle, and the Mawites - for all the perception that they were nothing but a savage, ungovernable horde - had begun looking beyond Nirauan before the battle had even begun. The Dark Voice had plans within plans, schemes within schemes, the full extent of his machinations (and of his ultimate goals) unknown and unknowable to any but himself... but all of his servants were privy to a
few of them, the ones most relevant to their roles within the Brotherhood. And all knew that the war would go on.
The Maw, outnumbered and outgunned, could win that war only by seizing every opportunity.
So Elahi-Bentley tucked away the datapad she was working on and walked purposefully out of the barracks. She had found that, if you looked the part and walked with purpose, looking like you were clearly going somewhere to do something important, you were virtually never challenged. That was doubly true in the midst of a battle, when
everyone had something important - indeed, something life or death - to be doing. So no one questioned the young Adjutant as he/she crossed the open yard of Fort Imperium, on an intercept course between Lance Four's position and the command centre the Lieutenant been recalled to.
She ran into Gorman about halfway, knowing him immediately by his rank patches and the crisp determination of his walk; he, too, was moving with purpose, though his was genuine.
"Lieutenant Gorman!" she called out, her voice a perfect imitation of Bentley's. She'd forced her prisoner to recite all sorts of common phrases over the week she'd tortured him, rewarding him with a cool drink of water or a bit of food if he managed to speak clearly and crisply. He'd been desperate for those little kindnesses by the end, putty in her hands. She had practiced imitating each phrase, imitating them back to him in his own voice. He'd been past caring.
Gorman turned, and she saluted him crisply. Bentley technically outranked him... but only barely, and not as a combat officer, so she greeted him as an effective equal.
"Excellent shooting, if I may say so, Lieutenant. I have the paperwork here denoting your ammunition use, to requisition your resupply, if I could borrow you just a moment." Gorman seemed to hesitate; he had been called to the command centre, and did not want to keep his superiors waiting. But a resupply would be important, on this battlefield or the next. If it would only take a moment to ensure his lads' next deadly barrage had enough shells, it'd be worth the slight delay.
Elahi/Bentley motioned to a nearby tent with a table inside, to give them a surface to brace the datapad against while he signed. She already knew it was empty; it belonged to a junior medical officer, one of the other two officers replaced by her shapechanging comrades. Gorman nodded, and followed her in. The changeling laid down the slate on the table, politely offering the Lieutenant a stylus. He nodded at her again, and bent to sign. It all looked perfectly genuine, because it
was. The figures were accurate, down to the last scrap of ammunition. Of course, the requisition would never actually be
filed. Not by either of
them, anyway.
As Gorman bent down to sign, Elahi stepped behind him. She had practiced this movement a thousand times, both in the dungeons of Goshen Keep and in the field after that; it was so old hat now, so routine, that it hardly rated as exciting. She slid the tent flaps closed, letting them hang between her victim and the battle outside. Out of sight, now, and it would take some time for a body to be discovered in a hidden place while such chaos reigned all around the tent. A long, thin object slid out of her sleeve, and she caught it between practiced fingers. It looked very much like the stylus she'd handed Gorman. It could even be used that way.
But it wasn't
just that, of course. It was one of the primary tools of her grim trade.
With that hand, she triggered the activator on the
monomolecular stiletto. To the naked eye, nothing changed. The blade was far too thin to even be seen; that was what made it so impossibly sharp, easily broken by an amateur but incredibly deadly when wielded by an expert. With her other hand, she grabbed Gorman, twisting her fingers into his hair and jerking his head back to expose his throat.
Slash. With a single, efficient drawing back of her hand, she opened his throat, ruby droplets of blood spilling from the thin opening. Then she twirled the weapon around so that it faced downward in her hand, a stabbing tool, and punched it through his spine.
He hardly had time to
gurgle, let alone scream, before shock whisked him from the galaxy.
Dropping his hair, she caught him with an arm around his chest, easing him to the ground; perhaps no one would have heard the crash of his body hitting the table, not with everything else going on, but professionals didn't take chances. Retracting her stiletto blade and tucking it away, Elahi gently folded the man up, careful not to get blood from his weeping throat on herself. She tucked him into the fetal position, as if he were entering the world rather than leaving it, and slid him beneath the table. It was covered by a cloth, masking most of his body; she could guess that it would be quite some time before he was found, though his
absence would be noted soon.
With the calm detachment of a professional assassin, Elahi quietly walked out of the tent and headed back to her post. What she had just done would not matter here on Nirauan. The outcome of
this battle, this furthest, most dangerous, most costly strike the Brotherhood had ever attempted, would be decided by factors already in play - the bomb, the charge, the breach, the clash of fleets - and not by anything she could do now. But no matter what happened here, no matter which force stood victorious on this world, the war would not end. No one was fully broken yet... and hatred, the kind of hatred that always existed between pure order and pure chaos, was enduring.
The war would rage on... and the kill she'd just made was the first strike of the
next battle.
Tegan Starfall
\\
Rurik Fel
Ragnar Bloodfist
Khroraic @IMSAAVEINA
Djorn Bline
Keilara Kala'myr
Kyrel Ren
Detritus Ren
