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General Halston grimaced, as another artillery barrage shook the old shopping center where he'd set up his command center. The blasts were getting closer, homing in on his position. Just behind that wavefront of bursting shells marched thousands of Bloc Collective soldiers, trampling over the ruins of the New Prague Arcology, coming to finish off the General, and the entire Third Division with him.

"Lieutenant!" the General barked to his adjutant seated at a portable comm station set up in the middle of the chaotic control center. "What have we got on those reinforcements from the Fifth and Seventh Divisions?"

Lieutenant Barclay's eyes scanned the holoscreen before him, but he shook his head, grimly. "Negative, sir. BC's are hammering every planet in the system -- the Fifth and Seventh are holding fast on Nova Europa and Clark Colony, but they're under too much pressure to assist us."

General Halston scowled. "Damn it! The bastards planned it perfectly. Looks like we're on our own."

"I'm afraid so sir." Barclay said, as he scanned the recently decrypted communications. "The only affirmative response we've received is from...damn it, the message header's corrupted, but the ESA comm codes check out. It looks like some kind of religious NGO registered on Terra. They say they have a vessel underway and are offering...religious assistance?"

The General scoffed. "What, like humanitarian aid to the civilians? Chaplains for the troops? We've got to survive *the day* before any of that'll matter to us, and those BC sons of bitches don't respect the neutrality of relief organizations -- tell them to turn back before they get themselves killed!"

Barclay nodded, "Yes sir." He quickly tapped out an encrypted subspace message. The console chirped almost immediately, signalling a reply.

"What'd they say?" the General asked.

Barclay frowned. "Their message says 'We're already here'."

"Sir!" an alarmed scanner technician called. "Dreadnought-class starship detected in orbit!"

"What? When the hell did this happen?" the General demanded, whirling on the frantic technician.

"J-just now, sir!" the tech stammered, shaking her head in disbelief. "It must have been running under a stealth field!"

"Is it BC, or one of ours?"

"Receiving an IFF transponder signal sir! It's not military, but it is a valid civilian ESA code..." Barclay said, scanning his display. He looked up at the General with an expression of confusion. "...actually, it's the same ID code used by that religious NGO, sir."

"Drop shuttle launches detected!" the scanner tech called. "Multiple inbound!"

"What the hell are they doing?" the General exclaimed. "Where are they setting down?"

"Trajectories indicate they're headed to hot zones all over the planet, sir!" the tech said, shaking her head incredulously. Then she looked up in surprise. "Inbound! One's coming down right on top of us, sir!"

After confirming the IFF recognition to stand down the AA batteries around the command center, General Halston and Lieutenant Barclay rushed towards the windows that faced the projected drop site. Moments later, a massive armored transport ship, painted an almost garish blood red, descended from the sky. It looked large enough to carry hundreds of heavy troops, and the ground trembled as it touched down on the vast swathe of demarcated polymer pavement that had once been the shopping center's parking lot.

As the General and his staff looked on in amazement, the huge bay door in the ship's bow opened, folding down into a ramp. At the top of the ramp, a figure in red-painted powered armor stood at the head of a multitude of similarly armored and heavily armed troops. He was old, with a bald head and long white beard, but even from their distant vantage point, they could see the steel in his gaze.

"I don't believe it...it's them." the General murmured.

"Them?" Lieutenant Barclay asked.

"It was decades ago, before your time." the General said, his eyes going distant. "Back near the start of the war, when the BC started killing ESA-based relief workers. This one group, one of the oldest ones, withdrew after their people got hit hard. They lost hundreds in an unprovoked massacre, and after that, they stopped their relief projects. They said they were changing focus, and all their ships left for territories on the outer rim. No one ever saw them again. We just thought they'd gotten scared and closed up shop -- and who could blame them?"

"'Them' *who,* sir?" the Lieutenant pressed.

But just then, the figure at the head of the column spoke, and his voice was evidently transmitted through external public address speakers mounted on the huge transport ship, because it was audible even in the command center.

"Hear the word of the Lord: *If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men,"* the old soldier said, in a clear strong voice.

"AMEN." roared the troops behind him in unison.

"But within those holy words is a truth often overlooked, that we ourselves once overlooked: that there are times when *it is not possible!*"

"AMEN." the soldiers roared again.

"And so it is also written, for times such as those, *He that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one."* the old man said, a hard edge in his voice. "And thus have we done!"

"AMEN!"

The soldier raised a gleaming bronze object in his hand, and brought it down sharply. A clear sharp sound reverberated through the air, amplified by the same PA system that amplified the man's voice.

"Once, by this sound, we called to those with love in their hearts, to give charity to their fellow man! Now, by this sound, we call to those who have given their hearts to evil, to tremble in fear: for we have come for them, and the wrath of Almighty God comes with us!"

Again and again, he swung the little piece of bronze, and again and again the clear note rang out, rendered ominous by the old man's baleful proclamation. He strode down the ramp from the transport ship, still waving the object he held, and a wave of red-armored soldiers marched after him, with sleek armored vehicles and mobile light artillery rolling close behind.

"What's that thing he's holding?" Barclay asked, squinting into the distance.

The General shook his head in amazement. "It's a *bell,* Lieutenant."

---

Submitted by SilasCrane on Fri, Mar 17, 2023 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

what the general expected from "religious assistance" was shipments of donated supplies, some medics and maybe a priest to preform last rites and funerals... not fifty warpriests each with a thousand holy warriors eager to kill and die for the glory of their god.