The Only Gods We Know, Ch 7: The Cogwork Fortress

The FRAGO for Operation Cogwork was simple: dismantle the enemy's industrial capacity, node by node. Looking at the interlocking defensive grid of the Myrkviðr system, Brynja knew "simple" was just another word for feeding ships into a grinder.

The trip from the dead green hell of Iðunn's Orchard to this new Area of Operations was like shifting gears in her mind. The creepy, psychic horror was gone, replaced by a more familiar, more professional kind of dread. This was a war they understood, a war of steel, fire, and cold math.

In the Stormbringers' ready-room aboard the Hrafnfljúga, the mood was very different. Shimmering blueprints of the Chitin-Cog fleet positions filled the holotable, overlaid with hard data: threat reports on their automated point-defense systems, and chilling studies of their manufacturing and logistical capabilities. The data showed a civilization of factory-fortresses and drone armies, a race that built with cold logic. They fought with industrial precision.

"This is a numbers game," Sigrun grunted, her thick arms crossed as she studied the projected fleet numbers. "They can replace their losses faster than we can. A long war favors them."

"Only if we fight them on their terms," Astrid countered, her eyes fixed on the holotable with a predatory stillness. "Their drones are soulless machines. They lack the spark, a warrior's cleverness. We have the advantage in skill and spirit."

Brynja stayed silent, taking in the data. The numbers told a harsher story than Astrid's optimism suggested. Spirit was a fine thing, but it didn't do much against a million automated gun turrets. The production figures alone were staggering-they were looking at an enemy that could manufacture replacement forces faster than the Asgardians could destroy them.

The new reality of the mission was shown in their gear. Quartermaster Róta, her usual stressed expression now replaced with one of grim focus, watched over the distribution of new weapon packages. They swapped out their all-purpose kits for specialized hardware. Their Gungnir-lances were refitted with stronger armor-piercing charges. They were issued pouches of sticky EMP grenades designed to fry drone circuits, and data-tethers-advanced hacking tools that would let the Combat Mages try to break into fortified C2 nodes. The hardware was for a siege.

The mood among the Einherjar was also changed. The quiet, haunted looks from the last campaign were gone, replaced by a hardened, professional tension. They cleaned their storm-bolters, ran checks on their power armor, and spoke in low, short tones about shooting lanes and breaching tactics. This was a war they were trained for, a war of cover, suppression, and massive firepower. It was brutal, but it was logical. Predictable, in its own horrific way.

Astrid was practically shaking with new purpose. She found Brynja running a check on her Vindbitr's targeting systems. "Finally," Astrid said, clapping a gloved hand on Brynja's shoulder. "A proper war. A fight of arms against an enemy worth the effort, unlike some overgrown garden. This is where sagas are truly made, Brynja."

Brynja didn't look up from her console. "Sagas are just stories we tell ourselves after the fact, Astrid. This is just another job."

The words hung in the air between them. Astrid's face tightened, but she said nothing, just turned and walked away.

Brynja prepared with a cold, detached focus. She felt no new excitement, no thrill of the hunt. The "glorious purpose" felt like a memory, burned away in the jungles of Iðunn's Orchard. This was the next name on the Allfather's list. A job.

Her job was to do the mission and keep her people alive. Nothing more, nothing less.

***

The arrival of the Asgardian Armada at the edge of the Myrkviðr Forge Complex was met with a heavy, industrial silence. The system had no planets in the normal sense, no green worlds or barren rocks. Instead, it was a precise clockwork of death and industry. Massive, hollowed-out asteroids, their surfaces covered with weapon mounts and docking arms, served as factory-fortresses. Huge orbital foundries glowed with contained star fire, and a dense, connected web of automated defense platforms formed a shell that was almost impossible to get through around the system's core.

As per the OPORD, there were no communications. No grand speeches from Thor, no smooth offers from Loki. The Chitin-Cog were a strategic threat to be taken apart. The talking would be done with particle cannons and boarding torpedoes.

The fleet's advance was stopped almost immediately. "Command, this is Hlidskjalf's Vigil," the flagship's navigator reported, his voice tight. "We have detected a massive, deep-space minefield, directly in our planned path. These are active mines... they're hunting."

On Brynja's tactical display, thousands of red icons flickered to life. Smart mines, shifting their positions in a complex, planned pattern, their sensors already sniffing for Asgardian engine signals.

"Valkyrie Command to all wings," Geirskögul's voice crackled over the net. "You are now on minesweeping duty. Clear a corridor, designation 'Thor's Hammer,' for the capital ships. Move fast, shoot straight. Do not get bracketed."

It was tense, nerve-wracking work. Brynja led the Stormbringers in a tight formation, their sensor suites working overtime to mark the shifting mines. It required pinpoint accuracy, blowing up the bombs with short, precise bursts from their energy lances from the farthest possible effective range. Too close, and the chain reaction explosion of a nearby mine could cripple or destroy a fighter.

"Shit! Too close!" Hrist yelled as a mine she'd targeted exploded, its shockwave catching her fighter and sending it into a violent, uncontrolled spin.

"Control your bird, Four!" Brynja snapped, her own fighter dancing around a trio of mines that had suddenly changed their paths towards her. "Use your maneuvering thrusters! Feather them!"

Hrist managed to stabilize, her voice shaky. "Roger, Lead. My mistake." The FNG was learning the hard way that in this kind of war, one mistake was all death needed. The cold, logical precision of the Chitin-Cog was already being felt. They were defending, testing, analyzing, forcing the Asgardians to show their tactics and skills. This was just the opening move in a very long, very deadly game of chess.

Brynja took a moment to check her team's status lights-all green, all breathing. The minefield was methodical death, but they were cutting through it with methodical skill. Small victories.

As the Valkyries carefully carved a path through the minefield, the Chitin-Cog played their next card. From massive hangar doors sliding open on the nearest asteroid fortresses, a cloud emerged. A glittering, expanding swarm of metallic insects that blocked out the stars.

"Contacts, multiple, too many to count!" Mist reported, her calm voice finally strained. "Designate 'Drone Swarm.' They're deploying from multiple C2 nodes. Moving to intercept."

Thousands upon thousands of combat drones, each no bigger than a Valkyrie's cockpit, surged towards the Asgardian fleet. They were individually weak, armed with little more than low-power plasma guns or metal penetrators, but their numbers alone were a strategic weapon.

"All Valkyrie elements, you are now primary interceptors!" Geirskögul's command was grim. "Engage the swarm! Thin them out before they reach the capital ships' best range! Do not let them overwhelm the CIWS!"

The fight that followed was a chaotic nightmare of targeting, prioritizing threats, and pure sensory overload. The drones had no pilots. They felt no fear, had no sense of survival. They moved with an unnerving, logical precision, pulling off perfect, geometrically complex flanking moves that no living pilot could copy.

Brynja's mind entered a state of cold, ruthless focus. Her targeting computer painted hostile icons faster than she could process them. She fired, swerved, fired again, her movements efficient, her every shot aimed at getting the most kills for the energy used. "Splash ten… splash twenty…" she muttered, the numbers a meaningless chant against the endless swarm.

Astrid was in her element, a golden blur of destruction, her energy whip changed to arc between multiple drone targets, frying their circuits in dazzling displays of deadly art. "They're like flies!" she laughed over the comms, a wild, manic edge to her voice. "And I am the thunder!"

Even Asgardian skill and godly anger had their limits against pure numbers. The sheer mass of the drones began to matter. Brynja watched in grim silence as a smaller Asgardian frigate, the Stag's Horn, its point-defense cannons glowing cherry-red from constant fire, was finally overwhelmed. A thousand tiny plasma bolts hit its shields at the same time, causing a total failure. The swarm descended upon the helpless ship, their metal penetrators systematically chewing through its hull. The frigate's reactor went critical, and it vanished in a silent, brilliant flash of light, a new, short-lived star in the cold, dark forge of the Myrkviðr system.

Brynja logged the loss with professional detachment, a sour heat rising in her throat. This was what the data had predicted-attrition warfare where production capacity mattered more than individual heroism. She watched the endless swarm and knew this was a war they could lose.

***

The drone swarm, for all its terrifying numbers, was just the warm-up. The main event, as Tyr's voice crackled over the command net, was about to begin. "All elements, execute OPORD Gamma-Strike. Capital ships will start bombing primary hardpoints on Objective Hlið Þrír. Valkyrie wings will provide close escort for Einherjar boarding torpedoes. We are kicking the door in."

The plan was classic Asgardian strategy: brute-force combined arms. The capital ships, great space-faring longships, unleashed their main cannons. Lances of blinding divine energy slammed into the asteroid fortress's outer defenses. Explosions bloomed silently in the void, shredding armor plate and vaporizing gun emplacements. Under this deafening, overwhelming cover fire, Brynja and her Stormbringers flew escort for the heavy boarding torpedoes-basically armored, rocket-powered tubes crammed with angry Einherjar.

"Stormbringers, maintain tight formation on the torpedoes!" Brynja commanded, her Vindbitr swerving to dodge fire from a surviving point-defense turret. "We are the sheepdogs. Nothing gets to the sheep."

Their torpedo hit the fortress with a percussive crash that vibrated through her fighter's frame. They had breached. "All Valkyrie elements designated for ground assault, find a landing zone and get your boots dirty," Geirskögul's voice ordered. "The real fight starts now."

Brynja found a fairly clear landing pad near the breach point, the metal surface still glowing cherry-red from the bombing. She landed her fighter, the magnetic clamps locking with a solid thunk. The moment her boots hit the deck, she was a grunt again. The air inside the fortress smelled of superheated metal, ozone, and coolant fluid. It was a mechanical hell, a maze of humming, whirring industrial hallways, automated assembly lines still churning out drone parts, and the constant, unnerving presence of automated defenses.

The organic chaos of Iðunn's Orchard was gone. This was a place of cold, hard, unforgiving angles and logic. The defenders were sleek, heavily armored combat drones that rolled out from hidden alcoves, and automated turrets that popped from ceilings and walls with a chilling, mechanical whir.

"Contact, front! Turret, twelve o'clock high!" an Einherjar sergeant yelled. A turret unfolded from the ceiling, its twin plasma repeaters spinning up with a high-pitched whine.

"Sigrun, shield!" Brynja barked. Sigrun, a goddamn rock, slammed her massive tower shield into the deck plating. Its energy field flared to life and absorbed the first volley of plasma bolts with a deafening sizzle. "You're drawing its fire! Keep it busy!"

The impacts hammered against Sigrun's shield like a pneumatic drill. She grunted with each hit but held firm. "All day long if you need it, Lead," she said through gritted teeth. "But my arms are gonna remember this tomorrow."

"Astrid, flank it! Mist, find me its power conduit, now!" Brynja directed, laying down suppressive fire with the energy-burst function of Storm-Singer to keep the turret's sensors focused on Sigrun.

This was the new rhythm of their war. A careful, unforgiving, brutal game of cover, suppression, and attack. Sigrun's shield was their mobile cover, priceless for soaking up punishment. Mist, her analytical mind in its element, scanned the environment, her voice a calm stream of data in Brynja's ear. "Lead, the turret's main power line runs along that ceiling conduit, three meters left of its mounting. It's shielded, but the junction box is vulnerable."

Astrid, a golden blur of deadly speed, was already moving. "On it," she clipped, using the chaos as cover to sprint down a parallel hallway. A moment later, a perfectly aimed plasma bolt from her sidearm hit the junction box, and the turret sparked violently and fell silent.

They pushed deeper into the fortress. The next corridor brought a cluster of combat drones-low, skittering things with plasma cutters for arms. "Multiple contacts, advancing!" Hrist called out, her voice steady now, professional. "Three drones, corridor junction. I have angles on two of them."

"Take your shots, Four," Brynja ordered.

Hrist's storm-bolter cracked twice in quick succession. Both rounds found their marks, and two drones exploded in showers of sparks and metal fragments. "Threats neutralized. Moving to cover the third."

The transformation was complete-the shaky FNG from the minefield was gone, replaced by a competent Einherjar who'd learned to trust her skills. Brynja felt a flicker of satisfaction. They were all learning, adapting, surviving.

Brynja led them forward, coordinating their movements with the slower but more heavily armed Einherjar squads. The Einherjar provided the heavy, percussive firepower of their storm-bolters, shredding lesser drones. The Valkyries were the precise, deadly scalpels, cutting out hard targets with speed and tactical skill. They cleared hallway after hallway, a slow, grinding push through a fortress that seemed designed to make them bleed for every single meter of ground gained.

Brynja was focused and methodical, her pulse quick but her head clear. There was a kind of purity in this: no moral questions, no existential doubts, no second-guessing. Just a fight, a fight she understood.

The cost was high, measured in spent power cells, overheated weapon systems, and the occasional, static-filled scream over the comms as an Einherjar went down, his power armor finally broken by concentrated fire.

After what felt like forever in the recycled air and constant hum of machinery, they reached their main objective: the fortress's command and control center. It was a huge, cavernous chamber filled with humming, giant data-cores that reached from floor to ceiling, and several large fabrication units that were, even now, methodically assembling new combat drones from raw materials, their robotic arms moving with hypnotic, non-stop precision. The place was a self-sustaining engine of war.

Guarding the C2 center were the Chitin-Cog themselves. Or rather, the war-forms they used.

Massive, heavily armored mechanical bodies, some on two legs, some on many, moved with a logical, deadly grace. And deep within the chest cavity of each mechanical shell, visible through a thick, clear armored plate, was the operator: a small, vulnerable, insect-like creature, its delicate arms and legs connected to a complex array of nerve interfaces. They fought with a desperate, logical fury, their modular weapon systems changing mid-battle-a plasma cannon retracting to be replaced by a high-frequency vibro-blade, a missile pod swapping out for a shield projector.

At the center of the chamber, commanding the remaining automated defenses and the other Chitin-Cog warriors, was the fortress commander, a target designated by Intel as the "Fabricator General." Its mechanical shell was immense, bristling with advanced weaponry and orbited by a swarm of tiny, buzzing repair drones that constantly worked to patch any damage it took. It fought with cold, tactical skill, coordinating its forces, shifting defenses, and using any weakness in the Asgardian attack.

"That's the HVT!" Tyr's voice roared over the command net. "All forces, concentrate fire on the Fabricator General! Bring it down!"

The final battle for Hlið Þrír was a chaotic, brutal exchange of firepower and tactics. The Fabricator General was a fortress by itself. Brynja led the final assault, her Stormbringers acting as the tip of the spear. She charged towards the Fabricator General, firing the last charges of her Vindbitr's lance, only for its energy shield to flare up, deflecting her shots.

"Sigrun, suppress the repair drones! Use wide-beam dispersal! Astrid, Hrist, draw its primary weapon fire, keep it turning! Mist, I need a weak point, now!"

"Its main power core is located just below the main torso, but it's heavily shielded!" Mist reported, her voice tight with concentration. For the first time since Brynja had known her, there was a slight tremor in Mist's analytical calm. "The shields flicker for a fraction of a second after it fires its main cannon! There's a micro-second window! I... I can't calculate the exact timing with all this interference!"

"I can hit it!" Astrid said, a vicious, gleeful grin on her face.

Brynja gave a quick nod. "Get ready! On my mark… Mark!"

The plan worked beautifully. Brynja's team drew the Fabricator General's attention, and it turned to bring its main weapon, a massive plasma cannon, to bear. At the exact same time, Astrid, a golden comet of death, ran right up the Fabricator General's arm, dodging its attempts to swat her. It was a maneuver of sheer, insane skill, one that could have only been done by an Einherjar blessed by the Allfather's favor. Astrid leaped, her armored boot striking the reinforced crystal of the Fabricator General's protective casing with devastating force, the impact spider-webbing the transparent barrier. She followed through immediately, driving her energy whip through the shattered opening and into the core, the power disrupting the containment fields.

The Fabricator General's massive mechanical body shuddered violently, then exploded inwards as its power core completely failed. As the smoke cleared, Brynja found herself standing over the wreckage. And there, among the twisted metal and fried circuits, was the "enemy."

The small, insect-like creature, its fragile body torn from its mechanical womb, lay dying. Its many-lensed eyes, shimmering and complex, simply stared up at her for a brief, unsettling moment. She saw no evil, no hatred. Only a flicker of complex, alien confusion, a final question from a mind she would never understand, before its fragile life ended.

Objective Hlið Þrír was taken, but the cost had been high. The Asgardian forces had secured a foothold in a system of hundreds, maybe thousands more fortresses. Looking out at the vast network of Chitin-Cog bases, she saw the terrifying scale of their industrial might. Sagas never mentioned this feeling: the cold, professional possibility of defeat.

***

Glossary

General Military & Tactical Terms

• Area of Operations (AO): The defined geographical area where a commander has the authority and responsibility to conduct military operations.

• Boots Dirty: Slang term for engaging in ground combat, as opposed to fighting from a vehicle or ship.

• Bracketed: A tactical term for being caught in a kill zone, typically between the coordinated fire of multiple weapons or the blasts of multiple explosives.

• C2 (or C&C): Command and Control. Refers to the systems, infrastructure, and personnel used by a commander to exercise authority and direct forces. A "C2 node" is a critical hub for these functions.

• CIWS (Close-In Weapon System): Pronounced "see-whiz." An automated, short-range weapon system on a naval vessel (or starship) designed to detect and destroy short-range threats like missiles and aircraft/drones.

• FNG: "F***ing New Guy." A common, derogatory but often affectionate slang term for a new recruit or the least experienced member of a squad.

• FRAGO (Fragmentary Order): An abbreviated military order issued to change or modify a previously published order (OPORD). Used to quickly disseminate new information or instructions.

• HVT (High-Value Target): An enemy asset (person, vehicle, or structure) that is considered crucial to the enemy's operations and whose destruction would provide a significant advantage.

• Minesweeping: The military operation of locating and neutralizing naval or spatial mines.

• OPORD (Operations Order): A detailed, formal plan issued by a commander to subordinate units for the execution of a specific military operation.

• Splash: Air combat slang used by pilots to confirm the destruction of an enemy aircraft or drone. "Splash one" means one enemy target destroyed.

• Suppressive Fire: Firing at an enemy's position not necessarily to kill them, but to force them to take cover, thereby reducing their ability to fire back and allowing friendly forces to advance.

Chitin-Cog Forces & Designations

• Chitin-Cog: The designation for the enemy faction, a civilization of biomechanical insectoids characterized by their vast industrial capacity, drone armies, and logical, non-emotional approach to warfare.

• Drone Swarm: The tactical designation for the massive, coordinated attack by thousands of small, automated combat drones used by the Chitin-Cog.

• Fabricator General: The designation for the commander of a Chitin-Cog factory-fortress. This HVT controls the fortress's defenses and production facilities from within a large, heavily armed mechanical shell.

• Hlið Þrír: ("Gate Three" in Old Norse). The Asgardian designation for the specific asteroid factory-fortress targeted in Operation Gamma-Strike.

• Myrkviðr: ("Mirkwood" or "Dark Wood" in Old Norse). The name of the star system controlled by the Chitin-Cog, consisting of a vast, interconnected network of factory-fortresses and defense platforms.