The Planet Will Fall

There was no need to say what had to be done. Sas armed a plasma grenade and tossed it beside the pilot.

Boom!

Fragments not burned away by the plasma rained onto Sas's armor, a gaudy mess of flesh and blood that made it impossible to tell whether they had come from the pilot or the bugs.

He found two plasma pistols beneath the corpse, then forced himself to climb out of the trench and see how the other battlesuits were faring.

They were all doomed men. Everyone who came to the Eastern Fringe knew they were meant to resist a terrifying, nearly endless army of bugs.

They had trained for this for a long time. They had worked toward it for a long time.

Some had said that after so much preparation, they would surely make sure the bugs never returned. Every soldier of the Eastern Fringe Legion would have a chance to go home.

Sas had once thought so too. But when he truly saw the bugs' frenzied rampage, numbness gripped his heart so tightly that it could not even beat fiercely.

This warship was finished. Gaping holes torn open by Hornet escort ships were everywhere, and bugs ran through them in every direction.

The automated turrets and armed drone swarms were all gone. Only the desperate symphony of feeding remained.

Sas looked toward the battered battlesuits.

The commander's XV95 Ghostkeel Battlesuit was being besieged by two Hive Tyrants. XV9 Hazard Battlesuits were buried beneath the unending tide of blade bugs and gun bugs. Self-destruction was the last act of resistance their pilots could manage.

XV8 Battlesuits were dissolved by acid or sliced apart by Lictors prowling the battlefield. Lucky pilots died instantly. The unlucky ones could only be eaten alive, just like the pilot Sas had seen.