SF Story

That's Special Forces. Not sure what else to call it, but it proves two things: 1) I am still unhealthily interested in America's fighting men and women, and 2) I am still unhealthily interested in my Birthright game from yesteryear. So the obvious step was to combine these.

That said, back in the day when we were still playing, it had always been my intention to create some modern/near-future version of that world. Not only as an interesting thought exercise along the lines of societal development in a fantasy setting, but as a possible game world to explore "alternate" realities to our own world.

I wrote this some time ago. I suspect somewhere at the beginning of summer this year. If you can see the parallelisms with our own world's modern history, good call. They're intentional.

23:30GMT
August 12, 2025
In the desert east of Diktari
Zikala

Rashad abn Massaui pulled slowly on his cigarette, savouring the heady rush he felt. It was rare that he smoked, and when he did it was always to alleviate the growing dull ache he felt building over his right eye and in his sinuses. It would rain tonight, a rare occurrence in dry Zikala, and the headache was an indicator. The change in air pressure affecting his sinuses? He was never sure if there was some sort of physical reason behind the headaches he would feel in the preceding hours of rainy weather. He had never followed up on that line of inquiry. Besides, doing so would take away from the mystique of his prescience. Afterall, he might in fact have derived his blood from one of the ancient Bloodlines.

‘Avani, no doubt,’ thought Rashad, though there were certainly aspects of the Great Azrai in his life. Rashad was above all a practical man. A dealer in weapons to a great many terrorists, insurgents, or freedom fighters depending on who you asked, he had no silly notions of Avani’s Embrace so sought after by the martyrs of the Order Pragmatic. It was money that controlled the fates of the world, not some intangible goddess or the vain dogma spouted by her fanatical adherents.

Still, those fanatics had money, and so he would make the appropriate movements, say the appropriate words, to appease their sense of righteousness when they finally arrived tonight. Yes, there was no doubt he would be going to hell to dine with Azrai when he left this world. It was a reassuring feeling.

Sir, Station 1 reports a convoy of vehicles incoming. It is time.” Rashad turned to nod to the large man who had addressed him, holstering the pistol he offered. Andrei was a massively built and ugly as a mule. A Vos from the deep south, where the blood of the ancient Northsea raiders mixed with that of the Eastern Kingdoms, Andrei’s almond-shaped eyes peered out from a mask of scars earned in the Adai’insalan War.

"Very good Andrei. Tell the guards to keep one eye turned back towards the camps. Escort our guests to the tent. I will be waiting.” Andrei nodded as Rashad turned away.

Very soon, the dull rumble of the diesel trucks stopped outside Rashad’s tent. With a last, quick sharp breath, Rashad stepped out, arms held wide as a sign of peace.

“Brothers!” he shouted. “Welcome!”

The men who dismounted from the trucks were a ragged bunch, dressed in an assortment of mismatched robes, turquas, and old Vos tactical gear. All sported long beards, and each man was armed with the ubiquitous AK-47. A few carried vintage Brecht-style potato masher grenades. Rashad doubted they worked reliably.

Their leader, the only man not visibly armed, came forward, his arms held similarly wide. Years of living in the harsh northern steppes of Adai had hardened his craggy features. His cheeks, barely visible from the bushy grey beard, were ruddy, while the rest of his face seemed like boiled leather. A floppy, squarish hat covered most of his head. “Ashai Avani,” the man said. Avani’s blessing.

“Avani akalla salim,” replied Rashad. Avani’s spirit fills me. “You men are most welcome, Lord Darvish,” he said as he hugged the man and delivered a kiss to both cheeks. Gods the smell.

“We have travelled far, my friend. Let us share some tea.”

Rashad bowed once more, then swept his arm towards his tent. “Please, my home is yours. Andrei, my manservant, will see that your men are given drink.” As Rashad followed Darvish into the tent, he could see Andrei waving forward two men carrying a cooler full of bottled water.

Once inside, Rashad saw the other man had already seated himself. Moving with practiced efficiency, Rashad brought out a silver tea set and porcelain cups. Water bubbled in an iron kettle set on a butane camping stove. Quickly measuring out two cups worth of tea leaves, he put them into the strainer before pouring the boiling water into the tea pot, ensuring the water ran over the tea leaves. Thirty seconds later, he poured a cup of tea for his guest.

Darvish nodded in satisfaction, sipping the bitter liquid. “A fine brew. Avani smiles upon you.”

Rashad nodded obediently, then asked after Darvish’s health. His answer was as inane as to be expected, and as the two continued to exchange pointless pleasantries until the last of the tea had been drunk.

“Now, my brother, shall we get down to business?” asked the Avani’s Righteous Hand leader. “What do you have for me?”

Rashad finished putting away the tea service and smiled. “My brother,” he said as he returned to the small table. “...what I have will help you and your fighters send many Anuirean infidels to their deaths.”


* * *


01:30GMT
September 30, 2025
25,000 feet over the Mt. Deismaar Proving Grounds
Southern Anuire

The dull, red-lit cargo hold of the MC-130 Transport Plane hummed with the steady drone of the four turbo-prop engines. Mitchell nodded as the jumpmaster, standing by the ramp controls, signaled the two-minute warning. Turning towards the rest of his squad, he held up two fingers and passed the message along. The men burst into a frenzy of restless activity as they switched to their oxygen bottles and double and tripled checked their harnesses. The PT, Physiology Technician, moved among the men with practiced efficiency, tugging on straps, checking oxygen readouts and keeping an eye out for any symptoms of hypoxia. Mitchell gave his own gear another check and nodded when the PT came around and gave him a thumbs-up.

It ends here, mostly because I don't know enough about real HALO ops to write any more. As the story progresses, it would be clear that Mitchell and his Swords team were on a training mission, so often conducted by Special Forces types.

Interjecting briefly, the Swords of Mieres were, in our original game, a group of elite soldiers tasked with the safety of the First Citizen. In concept, a King's Guard but recruited on the basis of ability, and would so fall under the bailiwick of modern counter-terrorist outfits like Delta or the SAS. As the Anuirean Empire was designed around a basic American political system (governors, National Guard, Senate and House of Representatives, Judicial, Legislative, and Executive branches of government etc.) the Swords are a Delta analogue.

There after would be a typical techno-thriller-type plot, where our plucky bank of bad-asses must thwart some sort of terrorist plot. Obviously not original, but the intention was to write such a story set in modern Anuire.