Historical Log 845614 The Schism

Long ago, the galaxy was a paradise of peace and tranquility. This paradise was ruled by a galactic governing body known by many names, but after a time, became known to all as COPE - short for the Catholic Order for the People of Earth. The benevolent-despot government rules fairly for years, having long since become integrated and reconciled with science shortly after the Third World War. Paradoxically, the troubles started when science won the biggest victory of them all- a victory over death itself. The invention of a process called 'patterning' allowed the transfer of human consciousness, of the human mind, the human soul itself, into machines. This electronic duplication of brain matrices was made mandatory for all the citizens of the galaxy. Effectively, it meant immortality; but there were many who were unwilling to toss their bodies aside so casually, and others that regarded patterning as a straightforward atrocity, labelling the COPE government as the snake in the Garden of Eden. The rebels fled from the rule of COPE and hid in the outer edges of the galaxy. With time, they formed an organization known as PRA - Protestant Reformation Army.

The sparks of contention between the two governments started a blazing inferno of a holy war to the death - the PRA developed high-powered combat suits for its soldiers; COPE transferred the minds of its finest soldiers into deadly machines, duplicating its best fighters thousands of times over. The PRA countered this by using cloning technology, and the war raged on, consuming the resources of the entire galaxy, leaving most of it a scorched wasteland. After four thousand years of fighting, both sides came to stalemate. Their vast military complexes were smashed; their economies were ruined.

The once-mighty armies of the COPE and PRA were reduced to a few scattered bands of survivors on blasted planets, still fighting for dominance over the spiritual fate of humanity.

For each side, the only acceptable outcome was the total annihilation of the other.

--

PRA Commander #38762, call sign Warsong, adopted name Richard DiSano, reviewed his data file on the intergalactic battle moodily. Despite the rebuilding of both the PRA and COPE during the Hundred-Year Armistice and the promise of renewed peace, neither side had bothered to disarm, each trusting that the other would violate the cease-fire first. The old cradle of humanity - Terra, Sol II, Earth - was mutually declared to be sacred ground by both, free of weapon and conflict. In other words, it was a highly contested battleground that neither side could hold for more than a week at a stretch.

He sighed, stretching his arms inside the tight confine of his commander suit. His undersized unit was on a mission to find original human DNA for cloning on the charred remnants of this sodding planet. Right now, he was on the nuked-out western seaboard of what used to be called “North America.” His chief engineer turned her S3 construction B-bot suit towards him, raising an eyebrow from inside her cockpit.

“What’s the matter, ‘Song?” the woman asked, her voice a singsong taunting that could only come from years of companionship. “Suit getting too humid for you?”

Warsong sighed again.

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that this job seems…disrespectful to the dead, Nephi.”

Nephilim’s snort of disdain was almost loud enough to hear without audio pickups. “Disrespectful to the dead? Please. We’re cloning them. It’s not disrespectful at all -”

“Here’s a coupla bodies that seem to be in good shape.” He flicked his left arm a few times, changing the suit's function from a laser cannon into a 'lathe unit. “Male, appeared to be in his twenties, female, twenties."

Nephilim looked at the aged corpses critically before snorting disapproval over the radio. “Right. When you’re done with the DNA extraction, I’ll reclaim the bodies and the metal hulk they’re enclosed in.”

“Done.”

A few seconds later, Nephilim triggered her twin shoulder-mounted 'lathes to reclaim the metal and potential energy from the wreck. “Alright, Chief. Let’s jet on out of here,” she commented. “We’re filled for the day.”

Warsong nodded, giving the area a quick optical scan. A sixth sense told him of something watching them, and he shifted uneasily. It'd been days since reports of COPE troops in the area, but he would have felt more secure with a tank unit and some AA guns backing him up. Sighing once again, he looked to the wreckage to hide his discomfort..

“Look. There’s a computer of some sort left behind... strange it wasn't ruined in the crash. The two burned to death, but this stayed unharmed.” He picked it up and plugged it in, charging it from his suit’s power generator. “Looks like it belonged to the male…and going through the records, he was quite the audiophile.”

Nephilim glanced at it, really not caring too much about the bits of ancient, outdated history.

“Can you copy the data and patch it into his biosuit later?”

Warsong grinned. “Of course. This thing had only gigabytes of storage. We can hold more than that in a 'bot.”

The two turned to leave.

--

Typical PRA behavior to desecrate the dead. Thud pilot XD-2247 thought to himself grimly. He turned his sensors towards his captain, who was running a Can B-bot heavy artillery unit.

Your orders? he transmitted to his captain through the wireless network built into his cybernetic systems. It took a certain amount of time to get used to not having a voice from the old memories, but being Redeemed was worth any price.

You’re the decoy unit. Run out and take down that S3B. We’ll get the commander from there.

XD-2247 didn’t question the orders, and moved his own light artillery B-bot into position, opening fire from the plasma batteries on the heretic in front of him.

--

Nephilim didn’t even see it coming, and the sudden hits of superheated plasma blasted through her already-worn suit, killing her instantly in a concussive explosion. Warsong turned around in shock, automatically changing the left arm into the disintegrator high-energy cannon and discharging the burst. A streak of red fire tore across the land, striking 2247 directly in the center of his body, separating the unit into its constituent atoms before it collapsed into dust.

A Thud. Maybe a group of them. May God have mercy on my soul.

“Warsong to HQ. Come in, please.”

As he spoke, a group of L1 B-Bots of COPE origin emerged from everywhere, weapons primed and ready to kill, backed up by L1 VT riot tank units and something on the horizon he couldn't quite make out...

“We’re picking up on hostiles, Warsong. What happened to Nephilim?”

“Dead.”

He didn't bother to hide the raw pain - sure, they could make another clone, but it wouldn't be the same. They never remembered anyway... and if he'd just taken the time to 'lathe Nephilim's unit...

“We’re sending in backups.”

It was then that he saw the Can, and he stiffened. That thing could hit him from a distance, and he'd be out of energy for the gun and his cloak long before he could take them all out.

“Don’t bother. I’ll be dead before then. I’ll upload the data to you and try to stay alive.” He primed a D-Gun shot, and fired, the sound of a zipper going down before the wrath of an angry God struck three of the Leveler riot tanks, missiles and plasma bursts

“Roger.”

Warsong started his transmission and turned on his cloaking device, rapidly depleting his energy reserves. Shots from the remaining Core units impacted around him, damaging the suit more rapidly than it could repair the damage automatically.

10 complete…give me three minutes. It’s all I ask from you, God.

The next shots hit Warsong directly in the chest, disabling his cloaking as most of his energy discharged, bursts of electricity sparking from the gaping hole where the 30" reinforced chestplate used to be.

Shit.

He primed another D-Gun shot and let loose with it, destroying five more units and depleting the last of his reserves - and whatever Nephi had gotten from that care. The Can was lumbering closer and closer, trying to get in range to shoot without risking death.

2 minutes and counting.

The sound of low-flying planes surprised him - when they had promised backups, he didn't know it'd be that fast. He turned to wave, and then dove out of the way as six missiles sped towards him from the three of the COPE avenger fighters, spraying him with debris.

One minute, thirty seconds.

The Can fired. The laser beam hit Warsong’s suit in the leg, burning it beyond repair and and dropping him to the ground. He tried to D-Gun again, but the damn thing had malfunctioned when he hit the ground. Left only with the small, useless laser, he fired anyway, knowing it'd take well over a hundred shots to do more than superficial damage to the damned thing.

One minute.

Thinking quickly, he grabbed for a large rock, and threw it at the nearby Storm rocket B-Bot that'd just fired at him. Through some sheer luck, the rock hit the missile in midair, causing it to detonate and bowl the B-Bot right over from the proximity.

--

“Launch now, or it’ll be too late,” a technician called out to the CINC at the primary PRE base on Sol III.

The CINC bit his fingernail in nerves - his supervisor had been killed just last week, and he just wasn't ready for command, not like this.

“Arm a Retaliator missile and fire at Warsong’s co-ordinates,” he ordered tersely.

--

Upload complete.

The upsurge of energy into the damaged arm caused most of the power to be shut off to the left side of Warsong’s suit. He managed a final grin, opening his suit’s faceplate as fumes leaked out. Ethics of war stated that a soldier's last words were to be said - a rule both sides stuck to out of a sense of civilization - or was it last-minute regret?

“You may have killed me, but we’ll be winning this war.”

If CC-3457 still had a human body, he would have smiled. He had removed one of the most annoying commanders on Sol III, with minimal losses of units.

Mission accomplished, people. The PRA commander is dead.

He turned to the sky to see a nuclear missile plummeting towards them, his final sight that of a mushroom cloud before his Can’s outputs were destroyed by the force of the blast.