The Only Gods We Know, Ch 10: Ghosts of Jötun-Kjarni

One second, they were victors in a chamber of self-destructing machines; the next, the "neutral" turrets on the walls swiveled to face them, and Brynja realized their triumphant gambit had just become their tomb.

Loki's final, silky words, "…The Allfather thanks you for your sacrifice," still echoed in her skull, a psychic burn that was worse than any curse. The final, echoing boom of the sealed blast door was just the final word on their death sentence.

The red alert lights, which had seemed like a sign of the enemy's chaos, now felt like a targeted, evil pulse. The targeting lasers of the previously sleeping perimeter turrets painted her surviving team in a spiderweb of red light. The happy, ragged cheers died in their throats, replaced by shocked, disbelieving curses.

"What in the nine-" an Einherjar started to yell, before the first volley of plasma fire erupted from the walls, turning his exclamation into a wet, final sound as his position was blown to bits.

The betrayal was so total, so fast, it was almost hard to understand. But there was no time for shock. Shock got you killed.

Brynja's rage was a clarifying, cold fire, burning away the last bits of confusion. Her training, her centuries of learned combat instinct, took over. "COVER! FIND HARD FUCKING COVER!" she roared, her voice cutting through the sudden storm of friendly fire and enemy self-destruction. "SIGRUN, SHIELD WALL, CENTER! GIVE ME A BASE OF FIRE! MIST, FIND ME A WAY OUT OF THIS FUCKING ROOM, NOW!"

She dove behind the wreckage of a massive Chitin-Cog warrior, its dead metal body offering at least temporary protection from the turret fire. Her mind raced. Kill-box. Their own making. Loki's words… a psychic burn. Loose ends. The fortress they'd liberated was cleaning up its loose ends.

The chamber was a three-way, all-directions clusterfuck. The Chitin-Cog machines, driven mad by Loki's virus, were still tearing each other apart, their random fire a danger to everyone. At the same time, the fortress's own "sanitation" protocols, now turned on by Loki's remote command, were methodically trying to destroy everything that moved, including the Asgardians.

This chaos… A viral drone crashed into a turret that had been targeting them. A flicker of hope. The chaos was a weapon. Their only weapon.

Astrid, her teeth bared and the skin pulled tight across her cheekbones, let out a scream of pure rage. The sound that tore from her throat was a guttural shriek of pure, weaponized fury. "THEY LEFT US!" she shrieked, her energy whip a blur of golden light as she lashed out, not at a Chitin-Cog, but at one of the newly hostile Asgardian-controlled turrets.

They survived the first volley by sheer luck and Sigrun's unbreakable shield. A loyalist Chitin-Cog warrior, in its mindless attempt to fight a viral drone, stumbled into the path of the main turret that had been pinning them down, taking the volley and exploding in a shower of metal. It created a brief lull, a precious few seconds of breathing room.

Brynja used the moment to do a quick, brutal headcount. They were down two more Einherjar. Hrist had taken a piece of shrapnel to her leg, and while her armor's self-sealing system had stopped the bleeding, she was moving with a clear limp. The mages were useless in a fight, their magic spent, their bodies racked by the mental and physical exhaustion of the ritual. Kára, the Mage-Major, was slumped against a data-core, her face pale and streaked with dirt, her eyes burning with a furious, helpless disbelief.

She looked up as Brynja approached, her expression a mask of fury. "Your gods have abandoned us! They left us to die in this metal tomb!"

"They left us to die, Mage-Major," Brynja corrected her, her voice dangerously calm, the rage a cold, heavy weight in her gut. "Right now, that makes us allies. Your offensive magic is spent, but your mind isn't. I need intel. Can you or your people connect with any of these goddamn systems? Find me an exit."

Kára stared at her for a long moment, the fury in her eyes meeting Brynja's. She nodded sharply. "My acolytes are weak, but my knowledge remains. Their systems are chaotic, fighting themselves. A direct connection would be suicide, but… perhaps we can read the chaos."

"Lead, I've already got a tap," Mist's voice cut in, her tone tight but focused. She had her datapad hard-linked to a damaged Chitin-Cog console, her fingers flying across the holographic interface. "The virus is creating logic loops. Security protocols are fighting maintenance protocols for priority. The system is trying to seal everything, but it's also trying to vent compromised sectors to stop the virus from spreading. It's FUBAR. Doors, vents, service tunnels… they're opening and closing at random. It's a goddamn mess, but it means there might be a path out. I can't predict it for more than a few seconds at a time, but the potential is there."

A path. A chance. It was more than they had a moment ago. Brynja's mind grabbed onto it. Her objective was no longer conquest or escape to some vague freedom. It was survival with a purpose.

"Listen up, all of you!" she declared, her voice ringing with a cold authority that cut through the lingering fear and shock. The surviving Einherjar and Valkyries turned to her, their faces grim. "We are not dying in this tomb. We are not becoming a footnote in Loki's fucking report. We are getting out. We are finding a ship. And we are going back to Hlið Þrír to have a long, hard word with our commanders." Her voice was flat, stripped of all warmth.

Treason? No. Accountability. She would drag the truth back into the light. Kicking and screaming.

"That maintenance shaft, grid reference Delta-Four, its pressure door is cycling!" Mist yelled, her eyes glued to her datapad. "It should be open for another twelve seconds! Go, now!"

There was no time for questions. "MOVE!" Brynja roared, shoving a stunned Einherjar towards the opening.

What followed was a desperate, mad dash through a fortress that was actively tearing itself apart. They ran through sterile, white hallways where automated fabrication arms, driven mad by conflicting commands, were smashing newly built drone chassis into the walls with rhythmic, destructive fury. They sprinted past automated turrets firing into empty hallways, their targeting logic hopelessly corrupted. They dodged and weaved through swarms of drones locked in self-destructive, point-blank dogfights in zero-G maintenance shafts. The entire fortress was a symphony of mechanical suicide, and they were running through the orchestra pit.

The exhausted mages were a liability in a firefight, their movements slow, their combat skills poor. The Valkyries and Einherjar were forced to form a protective, mobile shield around them, a diamond formation on the run.

"Sigrun, you're on Kára!" Brynja ordered, as they ran down a long causeway. "Keep her shielded!"

The massive Valkyrie didn't need to be told twice. She became a mobile fortress, her cracked but still working shield absorbing incredible punishment from stray plasma fire and ricocheting shrapnel to protect the Mage-Major and her acolytes. The Einherjar provided a walking wall of suppressive fire, their storm-bolters roaring.

Hrist, her leg armor sparking from her earlier injury, fought with a new, focused courage born of shame and a desperate survival instinct. She spotted a cleaning drone-a low-level sanitation unit, but one armed with powerful industrial solvents-lurching towards one of the mages. Without hesitation, Hrist used a short, controlled burst from her flight pack to launch herself over a barricade, her spear piercing the drone's central processor in a shower of sparks. As they kept moving, Hrist earned a rare, grudging nod from Sigrun.

Even in the middle of the chaos, there were moments of sheer, black humor. They rounded a corner into a vast assembly bay where a production line, under the influence of the "Rune of Madness," was dutifully assembling Chitin-Cog warriors with their weapons welded on backwards or with legs where their heads should be. The sight was so utterly insane that Astrid let out a harsh, bitter bark of laughter.

"Loki's art is impressive, I'll give him that!" she yelled over the din, her voice a mixture of rage and grudging admiration. "He didn't just break their army; he made it fucking ridiculous!"

The bitter laughter and the absurd, mechanical nightmares they were running past became something the team focused on, something that kept the overwhelming reality of betrayal at bay. They were running on fumes, rage, and the sheer, stubborn refusal to die in a place their own gods had chosen for their grave.

They were running on fumes, rage, and the sheer, stubborn refusal to die in a place their own gods had chosen for their grave.

"This is it! Hangar Bay Sjau-Fimm!" Mist yelled, her voice strained over the comms as she pointed down a wide service hallway. "The transport should be on the main docking cradle!"

They broke through the final blast door and spilled out into a scene of pure, glorious mechanical chaos. The hangar bay was massive, a cave of steel and blinking lights big enough to hold a small Asgardian frigate. It was filled with rows of new, perfect Chitin-Cog interceptors, their insect-like hulls gleaming under the cold overhead lights. And there, on the central docking cradle, was their prize: a larger, mid-sized transport ship, ugly as a troll's ass but working, its boarding ramp invitingly open. The bay itself was a warzone. Automated loading cranes, their logic corrupted, swung massive cargo containers into docking clamps with destructive force. Security drones, their IFF protocols scrambled, were locked in a swirling, point-blank firefight with each other, hitting the walls with stray plasma bolts.

"Sweet mother of Odin," an Einherjar breathed. "It's a goddamn gold mine."

"It's our only way out," Brynja corrected, her mind already running tactical plans. There was no time for careful moves. This was going to be a violent, ugly smash-and-grab. "Alright, listen up, this is the plan! Sigrun, Einherjar, you're on security! Hold that goddamn ramp! Suppressive fire on anything that even twitches in our direction! Astrid, Hrist, you're with me! We're the breach team! We clear the transport, from front to back! Mist, Kára, you're on the bridge! Figure out how to fly this fucking thing! Now, move!"

The orders got them moving. Sigrun and the surviving Einherjar formed a brutal, unbreakable shield wall at the base of the ramp. Their storm-bolters laid down a curtain of disciplined, thunderous fire into the chaotic hangar. Brynja, Astrid, and Hrist charged up the ramp and into the alien ship. The inside was as sterile and logical as the rest of the fortress, all seamless hallways and glowing symbols. They swept through it, room by room, a well-oiled machine of violence, clearing the empty crew quarters, the cargo bay, the engine room. It was thankfully empty.

They reached the bridge just as Mist and the mages stumbled in behind them. The cockpit was a confusing array of crystal displays and what looked like direct neural interface ports, with no manual controls in sight.

"Goddammit," Astrid swore. "How are we supposed to fly this?"

"We're not," Kára, the Mage-Major, said, her voice raspy with exhaustion. She looked at Mist. "Technician, can you find the primary command conduit?"

Mist, her face pale with concentration, plugged her datapad into a console, bypassing security protocols that were already fighting themselves. "Here, Mage-Major. But the interface is… biomechanical. It requires a Chitin-Cog operator."

"Then we improvise," Kára said, a grim determination in her eyes. She pulled her last, emergency shard of Auracium from a hidden pouch. It was small, barely a sliver, but it would have to be enough. She crushed it in her gloved fist. The green flame that erupted was weak, flickering, a pathetic echo of her earlier power, but it was there. "Technician, link your datapad to my energy matrix. I'm going to perform a direct, brute-force interface ritual. I'm going to convince this ship you are its pilot."

It was a dangerous, insane idea. Forcing a magical interface with alien technology could fry both their brains. But they were out of options.

Outside, the firefight on the ramp got worse. "Lead, we're taking heavy fire!" Sigrun yelled over the comms. "Multiple drone waves inbound! I don't know how much longer we can hold this position!"

Brynja keyed her comms, her gaze fixed on Kára's smoking, flame-wreathed hands. "Hold the line, Sigrun! Just a little longer! Kára, status!"

"It's fighting me!" Kára grunted, her teeth gritted, the green flames flaring violently. "But I have it… I have it!"

"I'm in!" Mist yelled, her eyes wide as the ship's systems suddenly appeared as clear data on her datapad. "I have basic control of engines, shields, and primary life support! It's ugly as sin, but it'll fly!"

That was all Brynja needed to hear. "All elements, fall back to the transport, now! On the double!" she roared into the comms. "Sigrun, pull back! We're leaving!"

She and Astrid laid down a final, desperate volley of covering fire as the last of the Einherjar scrambled up the ramp, dragging their wounded with them. Sigrun was the last one aboard, her shield pitted and smoking, her armor blackened. "Ramp up!" Brynja screamed at Mist.

The transport's boarding ramp pulled back with a hydraulic hiss just as a wave of self-destructing drones slammed into their position, rocking the entire ship. With a violent lurch that threw them all against the walls, the stolen Chitin-Cog transport lifted off the docking cradle, Mist struggling with the alien, makeshift controls.

They blasted out of the hangar bay into a swirling vortex of absolute chaos. The space around Jötun-Kjarni was a three-dimensional furball of drone-on-drone violence, random defensive fire from the fortress's own turrets, and the occasional, larger Chitin-Cog warship firing on its own kind. They had to dodge friend, foe, debris, and fortress defenses alike. Her hands slapped at alien consoles, wrestling the lurching transport through a storm of debris and plasma fire.

"Shields are failing!" Mist yelled, her hands a blur on her console. "I can't compensate for all the system errors!"

"Just get us clear of the main battle zone!" Brynja ordered, strapping herself into a co-pilot's crash couch. "Get us into the outer debris field where we can find some cover!"

As they finally punched through the main cloud of chaos and into the relative safety of deep space, Brynja allowed herself a final look back at the data-hub. It was dying. Catastrophic systems failures were causing entire sections of the spherical fortress to explode, chain reactions from Loki's virus ripping it apart from the inside. It was becoming its own tomb, a silent, burning monument to their "sacrifice" and their impossible escape.

They were in a stolen, damaged enemy ship, deep in hostile territory, cut off from the Asgardian fleet, and officially listed as KIA. They were survivors. They were betrayed. They were ghosts.

Brynja looked at the grim, furious, exhausted faces of her surviving team, reflected in the dark metal of the cockpit viewscreen. The Valkyries, the Einherjar, the Mages-all of them, abandoned. The Allfather's plan-shattered. Broken glass. She looked at the grim faces reflected in the dark metal. Her duty now was to them. The survivors. That duty was iron.

Her voice was cold and hard as iron as she gave her first order as the commander of a ghost crew.

"Mist, lay in a course for FOB Hlið Þrír. We're going home."

***

Glossary

General Military & Tactical Terms

• All Elements: A command term used to address every unit and individual under the speaker's command.

• Base of Fire: A tactical concept where one group of soldiers provides steady, aimed fire at the enemy (suppressive fire) to pin them down, allowing another group to maneuver safely.

• Breach Team: The specialized group designated to be the first to enter and secure a hostile room, ship, or structure.

• Cover / Hard Cover: Anything that provides physical protection from enemy fire. "Hard Cover" specifically refers to protection that can reliably stop projectiles (like a metal engine block), as opposed to "concealment," which only hides you (like a bush or smoke).

• Covering Fire: Fire directed at the enemy to distract them or force them to take cover, allowing friendly forces to move or retreat. Similar to Suppressive Fire.

• Formation (Diamond Formation): A specific arrangement of soldiers for movement and combat. A diamond formation is a versatile arrangement that provides 360-degree security.

• Headcount: The act of counting personnel to determine how many are still alive, wounded, or missing after an engagement.

• Hold the Line: A command to defend a position at all costs and not retreat.

• Inbound: A term used in radio communications to indicate that enemies or projectiles are approaching the unit's position.

• Kill-box: A military term for an area that has been set up to be an inescapable ambush. All weapons are pre-sighted on the location, so anyone who enters it is easily targeted and destroyed from multiple directions.

• On the Double: A command to move quickly, at a running pace.

• Pinning Down: The act of using heavy fire to force an enemy to stay in their cover, preventing them from moving or returning fire effectively.

• Shrapnel: Fragments of a bomb, shell, or other object thrown out by an explosion.

• Suppressive Fire: Intense, heavy fire aimed at an enemy's position not necessarily to hit them, but to force them to keep their heads down and prevent them from firing back accurately.

• Volley: A simultaneous discharge of multiple weapons at once.

Acronyms & Slang

• FOB (Forward Operating Base): A secured, forward-deployed military encampment used to support tactical operations in a hostile area. "FOB Hlið Þrír" is the name of their home base.

• FUBAR: A military acronym for "Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition" (or "Repair"). It describes a situation that is hopelessly chaotic, broken, and out of control.

• IFF (Identify Friend or Foe): An electronic system that allows automated systems (like turrets) to distinguish between friendly and enemy targets. In the story, the scrambling of IFF protocols is what causes friendly drones to attack each other.

• KIA (Killed In Action): The official military designation for a soldier who has been killed in a combat zone. Brynja recognizes that her team will be listed as KIA to cover up the betrayal.

• Three-dimensional Furball: Fighter pilot slang. A "furball" is a chaotic, swirling dogfight involving multiple aircraft. "Three-dimensional" adapts this term for the complex nature of combat in space.

Story-Specific & Sci-Fi Terms

• Einherjar: In this context, a class of Asgardian soldier, likely a type of heavy infantry, analogous to a Marine or shock trooper. (In Norse mythology, the Einherjar are the spirits of warriors who died in battle and are brought to Valhalla).

• Flight Pack: A personal propulsion device, likely a form of jetpack, used for short, controlled bursts of movement in combat.

• Ghost Crew: An unofficial term for a unit that is officially considered dead (KIA) but has survived. They operate "off the books," without support or recognition.

• Grid Reference (Delta-Four): A specific location on a map or schematic, identified by coordinates on a grid.

• Mage-Major: A military rank indicating a commanding officer who is also a magic-user.

• Sanitation Protocols: A corporate or military euphemism for a protocol designed to "clean up" a compromised area by sterilizing it—in this case, by destroying everything that moves within it.

• Shield Wall: A defensive formation where warriors with shields (in this case, energy shields) link them together to form a continuous, mobile barrier against enemy fire.

• Storm-bolters: A powerful, large-caliber automatic firearm, likely firing explosive rounds, used by the Einherjar.

• Valkyries: In this context, a class of elite Asgardian warrior, likely more specialized or senior than the Einherjar. (In Norse mythology, Valkyries choose who lives and dies in battle).