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Thread: [M] War in the Dirt - Imperials IC

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    Spoiler: Legio Sirenia - Perinetus 
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    Spoiler: Center, railway builings 


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    Spoiler: Haven 14th, Cam’s Lot Militia, Cadian 2451st - Baraspine 
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    [OOC - Space held for Gerry, Crenshaw and Loyal Legion introduction]

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    Spoiler: 100th Adrantean Infantry, 112th Kriegan Mechanised, 2451st Cadian Armoured 
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    Cadian 2451st RAR, 2nd Company:

    The fighting had died down, the men and women of the 2451st RAR, 2nd Company began making the most of their halt. The tank commanders brought their machines into halt positions. They backed their vehicles into the shade, behind buildings or behind rubble. Anything to obscure their machines. They kept themselves spaced well apart, at least 70 metres between every machine. In the case that the enemy counterattacked with artillery or aircraft. Their crews unbuttoned, throwing open their hatches and clambering out of their machines.

    Crews immediately got to work. Tensioning tracks, checking engines, tending to minor repairs, replenshing turret ammo storage, barrel cleaning and re-sighting the main gun. Everything had to be thorough, if anything was missed it could mean machine failure on the march, or worse, in the midst of battle.

    2nd Company, 1st Platoon:
    1st platoon were the first to complete their tasks. They were the most experienced in the company, and they suffered the least damage. The combined crews of Mad Man and Mauler took off to Manifesto, who was still dead-in-the-water. Her engine silent.

    Lieutenant Linus ran behind the machine and went for the infantry telephone. The receiver had a cold chill about it, as if it had been left outside during a cold winters night.

    "Mad Man to Manifesto." He challenged.

    There was no response. The veteran sighed. He had seen the witch on top of Sergeant Helen's tank. At first he was jealous as he saw the witch "catch" the Hydra's shells midair. That jealousy turned to anger when Manifesto's comms went dead and the machine itself suddenly stopped. Linus held back the urge to ball his fists. There was a reason his tank was named Mad Man, the Lieutenant was quick to temper. His temper only held in check this time because he knew the Captain would be of the same opinion as him.

    "Get the pioneering tools. We need to get them out, dead or alive." Lieutenant Linus ordered, as he turned to face the rest of his section troops.

    "Yes, sir." They returned. Before parting in separate ways, each crew going back to their respective tanks before quickly returning. Linus began climbing the ladder rungs on the hull side.

    Maulers crew had begun the halt procedure on Manifesto. They looked her over and were satisfied that the witch did at the very least protect the tank.

    "Pass them up and climb up." Linus called down to his crew. One of which tossed him up the track tension bar. He caught it in both hands and laid it on the hull roof. He doubted they could pry the hatch open. A locked hatch was designed to remain closed, short of welding or an explosion. This wasn't the propaganda vids where the lone Guardsmen climbed a lone tank and lasgunned the crew after opening the unobservant TC's hatch.

    "Let's try the hatch first. Hopefully Helen kept it unlocked for us." Linus suggested, not wanting to actually waste the effort of prying the cupola door open. Linus crouched down beside the hatch and grasped it with both hands. Aridius, Mad Man's gunner, came to the other side and did the same. Both of them lifted, and were greeted with a groan as the metal parted metal.

    "Good girl." The Lieutenant jested. "Now, are they dead?"

    Aridius reached a hand into the turret and placed a pair of fingers on Helen's neck.

    "I have a pulse. She's alive." Aridius stated.

    "Good, get the poor bastards out and signal the medicae. We need them back in action before the halt is over." Ordered Linus.

    2nd Company, 2nd Platoon:

    “All tanks, the Captain has given us the halt order. The fighting is over. Back yourselves into cover and lick your wounds. We’re going to give the Captain a little surprise. Show her how much we’ve learned from 1st, it’s time to grab some extra armour.” Lieutenant Ennius called over the platoons vox frequency.

    “Won’t the added weight tax the engines?” Squawked the reply of Sergeant Alexandre over the vox piece.

    “Let me answer your question with a question. What has 7 men and 2 sponsons?” Ennius returned. One of his crew were laughing.

    “A Leman Russ with 2 sponsons?” Alexandre’s voice was confused.

    “That’s right, and how much weight have we saved by lacking their presence?” Ennius said, as glanced up to look through his cupolas periscope to see Mighty Brazier reverse next to one of the destroyed Hydras.

    “Roger, Lt. We’ll check our vehicle over first and then grab the welder.” Sergeant Alexandre’s voice vanished as he cutoff the vox channel. The Lieutenant could see the crew of Mighty Brazier already beginning to dismount.

    “What about our hull gun, Lt?” Maximum Precision’s hull gunner spoke up.

    “When the support elements arrive we’re going to borrow a crane and a hull weapon from one of 3rd platoons tanks. We just need to swap the guns from their mountings.” Ennius was confident in his idea.

    “What about Lieutenant Marcellus?” The hull gunner caught themselves and made the sign of the aquila. “Sorry, what about Lieutenant Wilhelm?”

    “He won’t be happy, but he’ll understand. We need everyone combat ready before this halt is over.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    2nd Company, 3rd Platoon:

    The survivors of Midnight made their way out of the hab block and back to their destroyed machine. Their expressions turned sour and somber. They'd seen death before, it was common place in the Imperial Guard, but they would never get use to it. Seeing Midnight in her current state was like looking at a ghost, the flames had subsided and Lieutenant Marcellus' body was gone, fallen into the darkness of Midnight's hull.

    "What do we do, Dieter?" He returned the very same question his peer had asked him minutes before in the heat of the fighting. Peter had an idea then, his mind was blank now.

    "We wait, I'm sure Wilhelm will have something for us." Dieter made the sigh of the aquila.

    Around them medicae staffers came running about. Tending to the wounded and dispensing triage. While medical servitors packed the dead into bodybags and placed them onto stretchers to be removed. Six emotionless wetware machines brushed passed them, laying stretchers before Midnight and began to climb onto the hull.

    Peter blinked, stunned at the ruthless efficiency of it all. He could only watch as they reached into the hatches and began pulling out the blackened bodies of what use to be their crew. He had to close his eyes, otherwise it'd be ingrained in his mind forever.

    Dieter grabbed his arm and shook him softly. "Peter, they're gone."

    A head of them lay 3 bodybags on their stretchers. Their zippers closed making it impossible to distinguish who was in them. This is only the beginning. Peter reminded himself.

    "They're with the Emperor now." Peter said, assuring himself as much as Dieter.

    "Forever onwards." Dieter looked to the sky, as if he was waiting for a sign.

    "Hi boys." Came the down-beaten voice of Selene, Matchlock's hull gunner. She was a mess. Her blonde hair was almost brown with dust and dirt. Beside her was Hera, Matchlock's driver.

    "Selene, Hera, are you all that made it?" Peter returned. He'd seen what happened from the rooftops. His plan was good, but he wasn't fast enough. They struck a pair of krak missiles into the side of their quarry to no avail.

    "Fokking Vanquisher. Got us before we were able to hit it with the lascannon or the hunter-killers. Paying your respects as well? Mind if we join you? We've already said our goodbyes." Selene’s voice was raspy. Peter knew how she felt, he was sure they all did. He waved the female tankers over.

    They stood in quiet solitude. Giving their respects as fresh men and women began to move passed them in clean formations. Their silence was interrupted as a pair of ragtag dressed guardsmen began to take notice of their situation. Their armour was old, surplus gear most likely.

    “Hey, you fokking pedestrians!” Sergeant Selene called out. Her fists balled. She was ready to fight. “Turn around and keep on kicking rocks, would you?”

    "Selene?" Peter asked, as he turned around. "What's the problem?"

    Midnight's new sergeant took measure on the newcomers before them. He had to hold back a laugh. Were these professional soldiers? White shields had better equipment than them. They seemed more like civilians pressed into service given whatever equipment they could scrounge up.

    Two soldiers of the Adrantean Loyal Legion stood in prayer. One was a rake- thin young woman with naturally tanned skin and her chestnut brown hair lashed in a severe bun. She cradled her helmet behind hands clasped in the Aquila. The other was a thickset older man with hiver, and was Baraspini by his mask and the pale skinned hands which were interlocked by the knuckles to make the Cog.

    “Apologies, we meant no disrespect.”

    The Baraspini assured, as he quickly broke from his reverence. His mask was etched with the same cogwheel his hands, now raised to placate the irate Selene, had been making a moment before. The woman sighed resignedly as she folded the Aquila in and hugged her helmet against her flak vest, and raised her head to regard them and the hulk of Midnight as her companion tried to make peace.

    “We only stopped to honor your lost crewmates and the spirit of this machine.”

    “Okay, thanks, now if you doggies would kindly keep on stepping.” Hera chimed in, making her own displeasure known. They were grieving, they'd spent years with their crew. This wasn't the time for chit-chat.

    The Baraspini tensed at the rebuke, and after a moment of silent consideration, he offered a respectful nod to Hera and then the rest of them. “Of course, and again, our condolences. Come on, Madeline.”

    The young woman remained stationary, as she continued to examine the damage on Midnight. There was an oddly intense light in her green eyes, as she glanced aside at her older companion.

    “This was an LR-V’s work, wasn’t it?”

    "What did you say?" Peter asked, he was taken aback. "How did you know?"

    Peter glanced to either side, Dieter, Hera and Selene were just as confused as him. It seemed that her singular question had defused the situation, instead leaving the tankers in bewilderment.

    “Madeline.” The Baraspini firmly stated, as he tossed a thumb over his shoulder at the column of similarly drab, gray clad soldiers who continued to file past. “We have intruded enough, let’s –”

    “How many Vanquishers did you say the Div’s had, Dragomir?” The young woman, Madeline, asked with no indication she received the subtle message on civility she half turned to face her fellow soldier.

    “Apologies, again.” The older man, Dragomir, sincerely offered. He sighed, and reached out to snag his oblivious younger companion by a webbing strap to drag her back into line. “Come, young lady…”

    “No, no need for that.” Peter offhandedly dismissed, urgent “I’d like to hear that answer.”

    Selene looked to Peter, she could tell her counterpart was already getting an idea. Intelligence was intelligence. It could give them an edge.

    The Baraspini paused, glanced back from Madeline to him and Selene. “Nine.”

    “Son of a fokking bitch…” Dieter said with a sigh.

    “Of course that information is eighteen months out of date. I was only aware of those in my regiment,” Dragomir promptly explained, and as quickly paused as he caught and corrected himself. “In my former regiment, I should say, or any which may have been acquired the traitors in secret.”

    “What, the Patriot’s didn’t invite you to their meetings?” Hera's voice was one of accusation. If they had known, their tanks may not have suffered the same fate.

    “That’s why we’re in the Guard.” Madeline quietly answered with hardness in her eyes.

    “You were a tankie.” Selene said, placing a hand on Hera's shoulder. “You were both tankies.”

    “Tephaine PDF, ma’am.” Madeline answered, obviously displeased with the former association.

    “Twenty years in the Divinatory Guard, after my time with the militia and resistance in the Crisis…” Dragomir confirmed, reservedly, with the hint of a thoughtful frown behind his impassive mask as he trailed off. The Baraspini wordlessly scanned the ruined and smoke wreathed horizon of the hive.

    “Throne…you’re ancient.” Dieter whistled, irreverent.

    The Baraspini chuckled, with an edge of relief, as he turned towards Dieter. “It certainly feels that way, some days… I was ordered to drive one of the last tanks out of the manufactorum, and I never stopped.”

    “You’re a driver…” Peter and Dieter exchanged a serious look. This was getting interesting. Peter glanced to Madeline. “And you?”

    “Gunner, sir.” The young woman answered.

    "Sir? No, he works for a living." Dieter smirked. "Were you any good?”

    “First in my training class,” Madeline answered promptly, and appraisingly tilted her head at Dieter as she sensed where the conversation was going. “However a gunner’s only as good as her loader.”

    “Well, holy shit…” Dieter's smirked turned to laughter. "Peter, one more and we're back to combat effective."

    Selene, eyebrow cocked as she watches the mass of Loyal Legion march on by. “Are there any more tankies living the grunt life?”

    “A dozen former tankies and service crew in our company.” Madeline said, as she idly began to drum her fingers on her helmet. She frowned thoughtfully. “Not sure about how many in the regiment.”

    “I would think at least a hundred.” Dragomir cautiously estimated. “There could be more.”

    The day had turned interesting. They were 2 tanks down, 6 KIA. Now they were faced with the prospect of 100 men and women to bolster the company. They didn't even need vehicles, Peter was certain the support elements could use them and he was sure many of the Loyal Legion would prefer being off the front lines. Peter's thoughts were put aside as another ragtag individual made their way over.

    The stranger was tall and vital, his face was bearded and weathered and his dark hair tousled and dusted by the polluted Baraspini air. His was armored in brown leather flakweave, which was covered by a black and white quartered tabard with a stylized, pointed cross divided in the opposing colors stitched in the center of his chest. There was a las-pistol in a utilitarian Guard-issue holster on his intricately tooled leather sword belt, where the blade was sheathed and spiral bound in parchment with devotions inscribed with charcoal. It was secured to his right wrist by a black iron manacle and length of chain.

    Peter almost took him for one of the militia nutcases who had been separated from the herd, and was about to shout him away, until he noticed the same green armband that their new Adrantean friends wore and the Ministorum rosarius about his neck. Ah, the shepherd come after his flock…

    “Brother Löwe.” The preacher introduced with a formal nod; his voice was solemn, and surprisingly soft. He assessed the knot of soldiers, before he settled on the three sealed bodybags. The swordsman raised his silvery-blue eyes to respectfully meet Cadian violet. “Might I have the privilege of their names?”

    "For the respect of the dead, aye." Peter returned. "Our KIA are Marcellus, Michael & Uwe. Good men, loyal men, I'd known them for years.”

    "Mia, Gaia & Rhea." Selene added. "Brave women, some of the best I ever served with. I can't believe they're gone."

    Selene gave Madeline a sideways glance as if to say no offense.

    The preacher-swordsman listened intently, and nodded once the Cadians had named their fallen. He advanced with an athletic grace, slightly marred by the hint of a limp, and stood before the shrouded bodies. The chain which bound Brother Löwe rattled as he clenched his fists and made a cross with his forearms, rather than the traditional Aquila. He closed his eyes and reverently lowered his head.

    “Immortal Imperator, savior and sovereign of Mankind, I commend unto you the souls of your loyal and devoted servants Marcellus, Michael, Uwe, Mia, Gaia & Rhea. They now stand amongst the hosts of martyrs and saints beside the Throne, Deus. They now reside within your light and power, Dominus. They now know your peace and serenity, Pater.”

    Brother Löwe unfurled his fists and brought his hands into the Aquila, as he raised his head and held the devotional gesture over each of the fallen Guardsmen in turn as he offered one last benediction in High Gothic. The preacher-swordsman formally bowed to the martyrs, and then turned to address the living, his eyes keenly appraising the odd mix of Cadian tankers and Adrantean infantrymen in conversation.

    “Was there anything else, before we all return to our duties?” Brother Löwe calmly asked the soldiers.

    "Yes." Interjected Peter, "they're coming with us to see the Lt. Then to the Captain. We need them."

    Captain Antheia, HQ Section, 2nd Company:

    Schenke deciphered her meaning and gave a slight flicker of his eyebrows, twisting the scar across his forehead. “Actually, I’m thinking the exact same thing as you, captain.”

    The Captain made her way back to My Fair Lady. Fokking Commissar. She thought to herself. Antheia was just glad the crew of Manifesto weren't dead. There'd be hell to pay if the worst had happened. She'd escalate the situation, take it straight to the Colonel. It was funny, initially the company captains hated the man. He was Cadian just like them, but he wasn't local. He wasn't a part of the Grain-belt pal battalion, that had served and bunked together ever since enlisting. During and after Telfus, everything changed. Colonel Quirinus had earned his reputation and their respect.

    Captain Antheia sympathized with the man and jested that he just be their pal. The Colonel had taken the joke to heart, his attitude changed and he ditched the cold ruthless efficiency that was drilled into him during officers school. Off the battlefield he drank, gamed, smoked and joked with his men. Antheia had taken a liking to the man, he looked good in his tanker fatigues, she even spent a night with him once the campaign was over. In battle his demeanor changed he was calculated, well researched; studying the strategic maps with keen eyes, he got to know his men and sent the best fits to where they needed to go and let them remain autonomous in their actions.

    "How did it go?" My Fair Lady's gunner Consus' voice knocked off her train of thought.

    "As well as you'd expect with the local political officer. He's given us a concession at least the frateris militiamen won't be joining us in the next push." Captain Antheia returned. "I need the maps, we need to plan our next move. We're advancing onto the spaceport."

    "So soon? We're 2 tanks down, potentially 3 if Manifesto don't recover in time." Consus' concern was thick in his voice.

    "We've got Imperial reinforcements. The Colonel can't commit any additional 2451st forces, they're tied up already. So is the rest of the Army Group, General Velius was probably forced to bite off more than he could chew." Captain Antheia's words weren't reassuring.

    "Then what?" Consus' questioned.

    "I'm going to speak with our counterparts. As I said, I need the maps." Captain Antheia brushed passed the man and climbed the ladder rungs of My Fair Lady. She disappeared inside the turret and returned with a cylindrical tube out of the basket.

    "What about us?" Pity called out.

    "We're on a halt. Tend to the tank." Her usual sassiness disappeared, replaced with a voice of command.

    Captain Antheia walked away with a purpose about her, she needed to know what forces they had to bear, what support elements they had and what the coming road would look like.
    Last edited by Jarms48; 10-21-2019 at 01:45 PM.

  7. #37
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    “Quit staring and get to your muster point. Now!” Valkyr’s voice was sharp with a bite like cyber-mastiff to match if she were pushed too far. She had noticed the looks members of the Death Korp were casting towards the so-called “Loyal Legion.” The Commissar could practically taste the distrust in the air but she could not afford the patience for it. Keep the boys focused on getting their gear checked and the Chimeras prepped to move at a moment’s notice. Thankfully, the Watchmasters of the 112th were laser-focused on the task and kept the grim processions of soldiers moving. Valkyr’s gasmask was fixed to her belt for the time being so that at there was at least one human face among the newly arrived mechanized regiment. Her main goal, for the moment, was to foster at least a slight good impression of the 112th among their new comrades-in-arms.

    The 112th moved like a well-oiled machine thanks to the solid leadership of the Watchmasters and in particular the recently appointed Watchmaster Alpha, replacing the previous Senior Watchmaster who gave his life gloriously for the Emperor. The newly promoted officer hoped he could one day do the same. But until then, his job was to make sure all the pieces of the regiment moved where they were needed. He observed the regimental tech-priests making the requisite blessings upon the Chimeras as each one rolled into position, marking on his data-slate which would receive a breaching blade or a minesweeper attached to the front.

    It was during this inspection that a Munitorum aid scurried up to the Watchmaster, practically wringing his hands and wearing a rather distraught look on his thin face. “Forgive me, sir, but there’s been a…problem.”

    “What kind of problem?” Alpha asked curtly, not looking up from his data-slate.

    “Well, sir… The mine flails never made it to the supply dock.”

    Alpha finally paused in his work and turned his masked visage to the aid who may have soiled himself just a bit at the sight of that impassive face casting judgment upon his entire life and lineage. “So the mine flails that were painstakingly and specifically requested,” he began, “and approved that were supposed to arrive with the rest of our resupply shipment never arrived. That’s what you’re telling me, boy?”

    “Y-yes.”

    “Very well. Walk away from me immediately before I have to strapped to the front of a Chimera instead.”

    Such negligent mix-ups were to be expected, at times, from such a massive operation. The loss of the attachments did not render the regiment’s mechanized capabilities useless but did throw a damper on the situation where they would have to re-think a few approaches if the way to the objective was indeed mined. But as Alpha looked over to where the Loyal Legion was meant to be mustering he considered that there were always alternative solutions if one knew where to look. But the Watchmaster was not about to get anything his way, that was clear, and resigned himself to that fact.
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  8. #38
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    Skaltine railhead
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    “Why did I have to come?” Lt Linus complained.

    Captain Antheia had made a detour over to the men and women of 1st platoon. They were sitting around piles of rubble, smoking and playing card games. They were the best troops in her company, she expected nothing less than 1st to finish their halt before the others. The men jumped to their feet and snapped to attention when they saw her.

    When she explained the situation and asked Linus to accompany her, she could already tell the man was fuming.

    “You’re taking minutes. I’d have asked Lieutenant Marcellus, but Emperor be with him.” She made the sign of the aquila.

    “Yes, ma’am.” Linus walked beside her with dataslate and map tube in hand.

    They made their way into the railhead, walking past the destruction that they and their counterparts had created. The grim reality of war was all around them. Charred ruins, craters, rubble and bodies… She did not envy those PBG’s who pulled shit patrol, with the unfortunate task of moving the dead.

    She walked through the station doors and into the railhead proper. It was always surreal how their objective could be so, comparatively, quiet compared to mere moments ago. She had to wonder how many men they had lost just to take the building. There will be many more.

    The captain glanced to her fellow officers as they gathered into the room, her eyes catching the uniforms of the newly arrived tankers who were already going about setting up their own tactical display.
    Captain Gortz had disembarked from her Conqueror and provided a city map, which she was now spreading across a bullet-holed ticket counter. The infantry officers were setting up a more sophisticated hololith display.

    “The inconsistencies of the Imperium. We get the analogue gear, they the digital.” Antheia jested. She hand signalled Linus to the adjoining ticket booth so the man could unfurl their own map.

    Not far away, Ketch and Jens disembarked from one of the few Taurox they had that didn’t contain something stolen, or of questionable origin, or that wasn’t currently missing a track.

    “Alright Jens let’s keep this quick, we’ve got a hell of a time ahead of us getting this beachhead secured.”

    Ketch herself had little interest in the meeting but it was protocol, and it might give her an idea of where her Kill Teams would be most effective.


    “Captain Antheia, 2451st RAR, 2nd Company.” Antheia introduced herself, before gesturing to Lieutenant Linus. “This here is Lt Linus of 1st Platoon, 2nd Company. He’s here to take the minutes of the meeting and provide a ground level point-of-view.”

    “Force assessment, my company is currently two tanks down and the medicae are working tirelessly on returning a third crew back to fighting condition. We’ve contacted Colonel Quirinus and he is unable to commit any additional regimental forces, nor is any additional forces from the Cadian army group available.” Antheia stated.


    “Colonel Grace Worthington-Jones, 100th Adrantean.” Grace announced in a genteel contralto, with a respectful yet measured incline of her head in acknowledgment of her fellow officers.

    “Captain Enrique Quintana, 5th Company.” Quintana followed, with an easygoing smile. He quirked a thumb at the taller, broader man beside him. “Buford, my First Sergeant.”

    The brawny, handlebar mustachioed Guardsman with an unlit cigar clenched in his mouth, and hands clasped around the collar of his flak armor, nodded laconically at the assembled officers. He wordlessly raised one bushy eyebrow at the mismatched sextet striding purposefully towards the impromptu meeting, boots crunching and squelching on shattered glass and broken plaster as they crossed the Skaltine railhead’s blood spattered and debris scattered main concourse.

    In the lead was a man in black carapace stamped with the Telepathica’s sigil, any notion of humanity obscured by a pugnacious helmet with glinting red lenses. Behind him were two Guardswomen in khaki and olive drab Elysian pattern-kit with blue collar flashes. The tanned, sandy haired sergeant kept her head on a swivel, finger against the trigger guard of her bullpup las carbine as her keen blue eyes checked corners. Her companion’s dark brown eyes were attentively focused beneath the beltline of the man ahead of her as she fiddled with her vox.

    The craggy, thickset preacher alongside the Guardswomen noticed, and frowned behind his auburn flecked gray beard. He lifted one of his arms from where they rested across his horizontally yoked grenade launcher, and knocked his knuckles against the back of the vox-operator’s helmet. The sergeant’s gaze flicked over to her startled, flinching companion, over to the Telepathica man, and back. She sighed as the vox-operator smiled broadly, teeth white against her rich brown skin, and shrugged off handedly at her sergeant and the preacher.

    Trailing behind them was a brown skinned man, clean cut with angular features and attired in the ominous black and scarlet sash of a commissar. He was leaned over slightly, engaged in quiet conversation with the adjutant by his side; a pale, thinner and shorter female wrapped in a black flak coat, with arms cinched tightly around her torso. The woman’s mouth was twisted into a frown, and her large, dark eyes were unappreciatively narrowed at the Telepathica operative’s back.

    “Welcome.” Grace acknowledged the eclectic new arrivals.

    The black armored man pulled the square-snouted helmet off his head with one hand. The face beneath was swarthy, harsh-lined, and unaccustomed to smiling. The Telepathica operative did not make an exception to his stern expression, as he impassively regarded the other officers.

    “Major Crenshaw, AAT.” Crenshaw scowled at a poster of himself crumpled on the floor - which was also scowling, although the negative Adrantean propaganda did not seem to have him with a bionic hand in their picture. Either their archive image was old, or they didn’t want to advertise the fact that he had lost the hand jamming a sabotaged digi-ring into one of their vaunted Nebula troopers’ faces. The major clicked his false teeth. “You might have seen me around.”

    No sooner had Crenshaw spoken; there was an excited and almost girlish gasp of surprise. In a frenetic burst of motion, the vox-operator had another piece of anti-Imperial propaganda bearing the major’s severe likeness thrust expectantly towards him, alongside an opened felt tip marker.

    “Oh, we have!” the guardswoman assured Crenshaw. She beamed winningly, and pointedly waggled the marker to encourage him into taking it from her hand and signing her souvenir.


    Lt Linus felt slighted and offended. The Cadian Army Group had liberated an entire planet and had made up the bulk of the Telfus reclamation force. Now here they were again, reinforced, rearmed and resupplied. Providing the brunt of another invasion, it was thankless work apparently. The Lieutenant’s quiet demeanour changed to one of anger and spite. He lowered his dataslate and stopped taking notes. His eyes falling to the vox-operator.

    “You should save some admiration for a real hero. Do you know how many armoured kills against the Bluies I confirmed? They call me Mad Man for a reason.” Lt Linus boasted, his annoyance thick in his voice.


    The vox-operator sharply glanced over her shoulder at the man, mouth twisted from an eager smile into a disdainful scowl. On the mention of Linus’ callsign, she pointedly dipped her gaze below his beltline, and met his eyes again with a quirk of her brow and a vicious sneer. Before she could voice her speculation at the cause for his moniker, her sergeant raised a forestalling hand as she interposed herself in between the two. She squared to the man, arms crossed as she levelly stared him down for a long moment, until she looked at his female superior officer.

    “Lieutenant, I invited you here for a reason.” Antheia gave him a side-on glance. Her voice was soft but stern.

    “Aye, ma’am.” Linus grumbled something incomprehensible to himself. Before returning to his duties.

    Come on Linus, you know I respect you. Don’t let her get to you. Antheia could understand the man’s frustration, their soldiering was thankless.


    “Oh, fer fok’s sake…” the old preacher grumblingly murmured, and reached up to cover his ears and prod the cochlear bionics around them. Nearby, the commissar screwed his eyes shut, and covered them with his hand as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The scrawny young woman next to him pressed her fist against her mouth while trying not to laugh at the absurdity.

    Quintana and Buford showed no such restraint. The former chuckled appreciatively, while the latter grunted amusedly – at least until Grace gave them a wordless, reproving slide glance.
    Major Crenshaw’s hardened visage cycled through a complex series of micro expressions as he regarded the guardswoman, and the image she presented. He was silent, except for the soft scrape of his thumb against his ring finger as his bionic hung loosely by his holstered bolt pistol.

    The glossy printed Crenshaw was hunched, with knuckles pressed against a desk devoid of anything other than stacks of paperwork. His hard edged features twisted into a contemptuous sneer as he loomed ominously over a cartographic rendering of the now-Adrantean Republic. Bold, Baraspini script attributed a quote to him: ‘I will make the Nebula burn.’

    Major Crenshaw blinked slowly, as his bionic fist curled and unclenched.

    “It would be extremely optimistic of you to assume that is going to happen.” The Telepathica operative spoke with a deliberate calm, as he evenly met the guardswoman’s eyes with his own brown-hazel. She instinctively recoiled, and took half a step backwards from him.

    Private Rana.” the sergeant lowly, and tersely, addressed her subordinate. The vox-operator reflexively came to attention. She pointed off at a side table well away from Crenshaw, over by where the Cadian tankers had rolled out their maps. “Get back to work.”

    “Yes sergeant.” Rana responded as she withdrew, with some quickly murmured words in Callistian as she passed by her sergeant, as she went to mind her business and her vox-caster.

    “Sergeant Drake, Callisto 44th.” the sergeant announced. The name drew a quick side-glance from Crenshaw. Drake matched the quizzical look, but pressed on as she introduced the others. “Our regimental advisors: commissar Schenke, adjutor Ephese, and chaplain O’Rourke.”


    Pulling up to the counter around the others, the tall Ketch scanned the officers with her violet eyes.

    “Greetings. I’m Ilianna Ketch, And this is Jens, Haven 14th RFR. As I understand it the objective is the spaceport for you lot, and I’ll be having my men fortify what we have here.”


    * * * * * *

    “Just pretend I’m not there.” Valkyr said.

    “And why are you coming in the first place, commissar?” the watchmaster returned.

    “It’s the best way to get a feel for our new allies. And someone has to keep an eye on you after making that munitorum adept have a mental breakdown.”

    “As you say, commissar.”

    Alpha would never argue with Valkyr about any decision she made so long as there was a reasonable explanation for it. He was already a bit late for the meeting called in the railhead but that was a price to pay in being newly arrived. The charred ruins and lingering smells surrounded the pair like some macabre piece of art. It was almost surreal, Valkyr thought, how quickly the whole face of a battlefield could change moment to moment. Alpha was as impassive as ever but his sharp eyes took in all the details around them from behind his gasmask.

    “My apologies for the slight tardiness,” Alpha said as he and the commissar entered just as things were getting underway. By his measure they were not too late, at least, so there was some small mercy. “Watchmaster Alpha, 112th Mechanized, 3rd Company. Accompanied by commissar Valkyr.”

    “Just as an observer, ladies and gentlemen,” Valkyr said, settling herself slightly off to the side.
    Another commissar was already there, standing unobtrusively but within earshot, with a scrawny adjutant at his side. He offered Valkyr a nod as she joined them.

    “I admit I am a little behind on overall information and assessments,” Alpha informed as he moved into the space proper.

    “Alright.” captain Gortz nodded. The starport reflected in the glassy black lenses of her visor-bionic: a shallow crescent running north to south, with the control tower at its north end, and the launch gantries and skyshields of the orbital berth to its south and east. Between the arms of the crescent terminal, a wide expanse of concrete provided launch space for planet-bound aircraft, criss-crossed with runway strips and glow-lit taxiways.

    Gortz coughed into her hand and cursed the polluted air of the hive before looking back up at the assembled officers. “It looks like we have three options. Hook in from the north to relieve the Casterians, hit the south flank for a pincer movement, or go straight in from the west. It’s got the clearest terrain but that’s not always a blessing.”

    “Guns sighted across the airfield?” the Havenite colonel Ketch questioned.

    “Yes ma’am, and mines. Or at least, that’s where I’d put them.”

    Ketch produced a datalsate and pulled up her own map, making some changes as the plans were discussed.

    Antheia pointed over to Captain Gortz.

    “How many tanks are in your company, Captain? I see a platoon of Conquerors outside.”


    The Corrisul captain twisted her mouth. “You were looking at all that’s left of Löwe company, I’m afraid. We’ve lost three units disabled in the fighting so far, and another four immobilised by damage or bad terrain. Orders were to press on without them - we weren’t going to leave the Legion without support.”

    “Emperor be with you and them then, captain.” Antheia gave her condolences.

    “We are appreciative of Löwe company and the 7th’s collaboration, and sacrifices, Hauptmann Gortz.” Grace acknowledged the Corrisul officer, with the deliberate use of her regiment’s rank, and offered her a respectful nod. The Legion’s commanding officer pursed her lips slightly. “Major Dziedzic has taken personal oversight of the platoons detailed as security for the disabled vehicles and their crews. I can assure you it is a task for which he is well suited.”

    Colonel Worthington-Jones’ subtle damnation of her executive officer by faint praise was more than explicitly reinforced by Quintana and Buford, who exchanged a knowing, disparaging look at the mere mention of Dziedzic. Captain Quintana’s mouth quirked into an irritated snarl, and he muttered a frustrated stream of what could only be coarse profanity in his native hive-jargon.

    “I wish we could’ve offered more support in turn.” Quintana commented, absently thumping a fist against his thigh as he looked at Gortz with an equally apologetic and pissed off expression. “If the Munitorum hadn’t fra– ”

    “Quite.” Grace interrupted, with a brisk you are done speaking nod to her subordinate, even if her tone was one of implicit agreement with her subordinate’s incompletely voiced grievance. Quintana straightened to attention and unpacked his data-slate to take down notes. He relaxed slightly, once Buford knocked a meaty fist against his shoulder pad and – with great reluctance – stowed his stogie back in a vest pocket, now that the meeting was coming to business.

    “Let us address the matter at hand.” Grace adroitly segued, as she turned and gestured to the illuminated projection of Kephistron Altis. She regarded the Telepathica operative. “Major Crenshaw, it is correct that your detachment has been gathering intelligence on the traitors?”

    “Correct.” Crenshaw confirmed. “Opposition force is from the Divinatory Guard’s 6th Regiment, and extracts have verified the presence of their Adeptio and Discordia companies at the starport – unverified whether that means the whole Kephistron Altis complex, or only the starport. Regardless, the defenders maintain open lines of communication with other regimental assets to their east, and we can expect they will be reinforced by the survivors of Mandatio company.”

    “Mandatio company?” Quintana queried, as he glanced up from his data-slate.

    “The opposition force turned out from this position.” Crenshaw clarified, with a brief side look as the adjutor side-glanced at her companion. “They are defunct as a cohesive, independent formation, but we can expect the survivors will be enfolded into Kephistron Altis’ defenses.”

    “That might be workin’ to our advantage.” Buford drawlingly speculated. “Once them boys sittin’ at the starport see how badly their buddies’ have been chewed on, or when those fellers start talkin’ ‘bout the kickin’ they’ve had, an’ everyone starts thinkin’ ‘bout what’s comin’ next – that’s at least goin’ to be distractin’ to their NCOs an’ LTs, tryin’ to tamp down on that loose chatter.”

    “Perhaps to some extent,” Crenshaw conceded, with a thoughtful tilt of the head, “But most likely less so with the Baraspini, at least under the circumstances and with their regiment’s orders.”

    “Aside from it being home turf, what about the Baraspini would make them less likely to break?” Quintana asked. There was an earnest curiosity etched onto the Legion captain’s face.

    “The Baraspini have a cultural reverence for the Emperor’s Tarot, and traditionally their planetary leadership is chosen by the world’s soothsayers’ college.” Crenshaw elaborated. “This becomes our problem, as the Divinatory Guard has been told to hold the line while the Emperor’s chosen leaders evacuate.”

    “Governess Vel-Cyvasse had already fled downhive by the time we’d gone in.” Drake added, eyes momentarily distant as she remembered Alda’s AAA firestorm. Her mouth twisted into a frustrated frown. “It could be the traitor’s already been launched, by one of those evac rockets.”

    “It could be.” the Telepathica officer agreed. “Regardless, we can expect the Divinatory Guard’s morale will remain high and they will continue to offer a determined and tenacious defense.” Major Crenshaw pointed at the wall behind Quintana and Buford with a narrow eyed scowl. “Be advised, we may encounter a fanatical degree of resistance, as the traitors are under the mistaken impression their revolution’s success has been foretold in the Emperor’s Tarot.”

    Quintana and Buford turned and parted to reveal a cluster of enemy propaganda. Ella Seren, the traitor astropath upheld by the so-called Republic as their ‘heroine prophet’, was in the position of honor and tailored to suit the Baraspini’s cultural sensitivities. She wore the green robes of her caste, badged with the Telepathica’s wireframe brooch and a Patriot rosette. Her face was obscured by a humble wooden mask, and she was illuminated like an Imperial saint.

    Buford harrumphed as he sharply tore down the image of Ella Seren, which inadvertently revealed the image of another blonde woman, who unlike the traitor astropath was unmasked. She was strikingly attractive, even with her visage contorted into a fierce, almost feral shout. The bold font, cautionary icons, and significant number of zeroes in the financial incentive at the bottom marked it as a wanted poster. The Holy Inquisition’s sigil was by the woman’s face.

    “Damn…that ain’t nearly enough zeroes for trouble like her.” Buford muttered as he crumpled the idolatry image of Ella Seren and casually tossed it aside. Quintana nodded in agreement as he regarded the image. Rana whistled slowly, softly, impressed as she craned over to see.

    “Yeah, especially when they’re offering Addie funny money instead of Thrones…still, that’s fraggin’ awesome, to be such a bad bitch you’ve got a bounty out.” Rana commented. She smiled as she reached over to nudge Drake’s elbow. “Wouldn’t that be awesome, Cass?”

    “You mean having a whole world out to hunt you down, all odds against you?” Drake asked, before she responded to Rana’s nudge with a firmer prod of her elbow. “I’d think not, Nas.”

    Grace instinctively frowned as she registered the side conversations from the lower ranks. She had, as Ketch seemed to be a reserved soul, assumed the responsibility of presiding senior officer of the briefing. She also had no desire to be called out by the Commissariat. Grace purposefully cleared her throat, and turned her own appraising eyes away from the image and back to the holographic projection, and studiously avoided looking at Schenke…and Valkyr.

    “Now, if we might detour back to the war.” Grace prompted; hands still clasped behind her back, as she continued to subconsciously and surreptitiously touch her marriage band. She frowned deeper, and glanced at Crenshaw when his briefing did not promptly resume as she assumed. “Major Crenshaw?”

    The soft, metallic scrape of Crenshaw’s bionic fingers against one another was by a whirling growl as he clenched his fist. Once again an enigmatic flicker of micro-expressions twitched across the Telepathica operative’s face, as he deliberately refocused his attention. Crenshaw’s false teeth clicked as he pointed towards the northern
    industrial complexes and their attendant worker habs, which stopped short of the starport, beyond which the perimeter fence was a monorail station and checkpoints before reaching the flat concrete surrounding the ATC tower.

    “In this industrial-warehouse district, a multi-company advance element of the 85th Casterian, a mechanized heavy infantry regiment, have been checked by the Divinatory Guard with roughly 15-25% casualties and 75-85% vehicle losses - most of which were sustained when they attempted, in their initial thrust, to move in force across this manufactory plaza.”

    Fok” O’Rourke slowly exhaled his emphatic curse. His expression was one of grim consternation. It was mirrored to some degree or another by the Callistian and Legionnaires as they envisioned the Casterian’s desperate situation. The old preacher turned to the Telepathica officer with an intense, determined look in his eye. “What’re the Casterian lads fightin’ against?”

    “Intelligence extracts have the Kephistron Altis garrison as predominantly infantry, with artillery and mobile AAA. This has been verified by Casterian vox-chatter, and there are some contested reports of tank destroyers by the elements which tried to take the plaza.” Crenshaw recounted. He nodded towards Antheia and Gortz. “Whether or not that information is correct, we should expect that Vanquisher support Mandatio had will be somewhere amongst the opposition force.


    “I would suggest we prioritise the LR-V as a high value target. Damn thing has already disabled two of my tanks and our company lacks the LR-A’s of our regiments dedicated anti-tank units.” Antheia chimed in.

    “Agreed. I would expect that Vanquisher would be sighted across the airfield, if the traitors have any military sense to them…which, lamentably, they have shown they have thus far.” Grace commented, as she keenly appraised the holo-map. “Tight and most likely ruined roads, if the Divinatory Guard has been using a significantly amount of artillery against the Casterians.”

    “They have.” Crenshaw assured the Loyal Legion’s commander.

    “No country for tank warfare, then.” Gortz murmured, with a displeased frown at the thought of not being readily able to come to the assistance of a beleaguered Imperial Guard unit.

    “No,” Quintana agreed, with an equally pensive frown as he pondered the Casterian’s situation, “But my boys and girls could move through that terrain and hit ‘em in the flank.”

    “Would that we could hook through the airfield and cut upward with the armored element, and hit the traitors in the rear while the Legion hits their left flank and the 85th charge…” Grace almost wistfully murmured. The reserved Colonel’s eyes were almost alight as she envisioned the prospect of destroying the Divinatory Guard strongpoint in detail. She exhaled slightly, and shifted her attention to the southern defenses. “What can you tell us about the starport?”

    Crenshaw pointed towards the area in question, where the ground sloped gently away from the airport.
    The area was mostly warehouses and other light industry, before reaching a perimeter fence and a short stretch of flat concrete leading to the terminal’s south end, and the starport launch area is encircled by a higher and sturdier concrete wall.

    “In what should not be a surprise to anyone, the Baraspini have hardened their defenses at the starport and airport. In regards to the starport, the concrete wall along the southern incline has been reinforced by an aegis line and extra turrets, with extracts unable to verify whether they are cannons, AA lasers or mixed. The airport is lower priority, lower security, however they have made some effort with additional turrets at the main terminal entrances and on the roof.”

    Quintana, Buford and Drake, as the non-mechanized infantry, exchanged dubious expressions as they considered the prospect of an uphill attack on foot against a well-defended position. Colonel Worthington-Jones was more composed in her outward opinion, even she had the slightest hint of an unpalatable grimace. O’Rourke started distantly through the holo-map, and idly touched his fingertips against the machined Aquila on his hard-used grenade launcher.

    “That’ll be...rough.” Quintana muttered as he apprehensively scratched his scruffy cheek.

    “Hauptmann Gortz’s suggestion of a pincer on Kephistron Altis by attacking from the south is a viable option, although I would strongly recommend that Captain Quintana’s company flank attack the northern defenses.” Grace assessed as she regarded the line officers. “The Casterians need the assistance, and so long as they are checked the traitors need not worry about dividing any reinforcements that they might be able to call in from the eastern sector.”

    “You won’t hear an argument from me, ma’am.” Quintana agreed, as the Legion contingent began to discuss the finer points of their assault with Crenshaw, Drake and O’Rourke.


    Antheia’s helmet micro-bead squawked. She had left her vox on My Fair Lady’s frequency. The captain put a hand to her ear to block out the background noise. It was Fausta, My Fair Lady’s hull gunner, who had remained on the long range comms in case there was an update.

    +++Captain, I have a Colonel Willibrood on the line for you. He says he’s from the 7th Sarusian artillery regiment.+++

    “Sarusian you say? I’ve never heard of them. Put him through Fausta. Then as you were.” Jannet returned, as she pardoned herself from her counterparts to take the transmission.

    +++Yes, ma’am. I’ll patch him through now.+++

    There was a brief moment of silence as Fausta flicked back to the other channel, before she finally re-routed the vox call.

    “Colonel Willibrood, sir.” Antheia’s back straightened by reflex. She’d never met or spoke to the man before, but a superior was a superior.

    +++Captain Antheia, Cadian 2451st, 2nd Company? Colonel Quirinus said he sends his regards, apparently he’s a persistent man.+++

    The Emperor and Quirinus provides. A rush of relief washed over her. She’d have to find away to repay Col Quirinus, she was sure he had to have pulled some strings considering his earlier refusal.

    “One moment Colonel, I’ll put you through on the caster. We’re currently undergoing advanced preparation with the other company commanders. I’m sure they’d love to hear we have the Emperor's heavy guns on station.” Antheia muted her vox bead and made her way back to the ticket booths.


    “Naw, naw, naw...I’ll vox for the LTs to canvas the local boys an’ girls about the lay of the land.” Buford was chiding Quintana, with a broad grin as he ducked away from the meeting with his vox-mic. “Some of us salty ol’ bastards still gotta work for a livin’, after all, sir.”

    “Yeah, yeah…” Quintana muttered, with a parting comment in his native tongue which made Buford rumble off a laugh, as he dismissively waived his senior NCO off with a grin of his own. The Legion’s captain’s expression turned expectantly serious as the Cadian officer returned.


    “I have great news boys and girls, we’ve got artillery on standby. Someone get me a caster and we’ll get Colonel Willibrood here to introduce himself.” Jannet said.

    Lt Linus had already moved into action and jogged out of the station door. He came back moments later with an operator in tow. The man set his caster on the counter and tuned it to Antheia’s frequency. Jannet gave the man a two-fingered playful courtesy salute,
    which made Quintana crack another grin, before she went back and unmuted her comms.

    “Colonel Willibrood, you’re on loud and clear.” Antheia reported.

    “This is Colonel Willibrood of the 7th Sarusian RAR. We have been advised to support you on your attack on the starport. You will have the Basilisks of 4th Company on standby. Their guns are yours. Our regiment has the luxury of being armed with a wide range of munitions: smoke, HE, AP, anti-rockcrete, alba phosphor, you name it we probably got it. Over.”


    “Colonel Willibrood, Colonel Worthington-Jones of the Loyal Legion.” Grace spoke, with only the slightest hint of frown at the expedient use of her regiment’s colloquial identifier. “Would you expand on the anti-rockcrete munitions, in both effect and aftermath? We suspect a minefield, laid into the airstrip, and would like to clear it without disabling our tracked vehicles in debris. Would that be a possibility?”

    “Anti-rockcrete, colonel Worthington is a high-yield heavy penetrator with an after penetrating explosive charge. Capable of punching through 100 centimetres of reinforced-rockcrete before detonating a delayed HE filler. For perspective the charge is capable of creating a 2.5 metre diameter wide crater and roughly a metre deep. In short, to say it’s devastating against hard targets is an understatement. I’ve been briefed and seen the maps, if you need a hole in the spaceport wall we can deliver. Be mindful colonel, this is theatre munitions; we only have enough for a single barrage.” Willibrood paused.

    “Warmaster Caiser would prefer we limit collateral damage to the starport.” Grace reiterated, her customary slightest hint of a frown betraying her thoughts on the command imposed restraint. “What would be your suggested load to counter that minefield, colonel Willibrood?”

    “If we’re willing to limit collateral to the airstrip we can disrupt and destroy them with a HE barrage. I’m afraid that’s the only option we have. It also won’t be 100% effective but it’ll serve. Where after we can create a smoke screen to cover your advance. Alternatively if collateral will be an issue we can provide smoke cover and shift fire to the starport. We’ll try and keep their heads down while you deal with the minefields yourselves. Over.”

    “Without the wonderful bureaucracy of the Munitorum, we wouldn’t be in this particular situation concerning the mines.” Alpha’s voice was low, though perhaps those standing close could hear him still, and dripping with venom.

    “It’s a damn shame too. I’ve heard a lot about you Kriegian boys.” Antheia said, with the hint of a smirk across her face, her voice equally low. She had never expected to hear snark from a member of the Death Korps. She’d heard stories and had always believed they were no more than emotionless zealots. Diehards who had only ever wanted to redeem themselves in the eyes of the Emperor or die trying.

    She patted the man on the shoulder for comfort.

    “I don’t blame you. The Munitorum had mixed up our transfer orders before Telfus and we found ourselves stranded on the planet of Ruse. It wasn’t the worst place to be stranded, a quiet civilised world.” She returned, her voice almost a whisper.


    “When it comes to the Munitorum’s benevolence, at least it would seem the Legion’s in good company.” Quintana sardonically murmured to his peers while his superior was occupied.

    “Emperor willing, we’ll get redeployed to Axinite.” Rana whispered from behind Antheia, with a devious smile as she covered her vox-mic. “I’d gladly patrol the beach at sunset, requisition some fruity drinks, and keep a very attentive eye on the cabana boys for seditious behaviors.”


    Jannet coughed and cleared her throat.

    “I may have an idea. Time is not on our side. Delaying the attack to clear a path by hand during the night is impossible.” She crossed her arms. “Our tech priesty is a tinkerer by trade. He might be able to tune the auspex to detect the cavities created by the mine casings. It’s not a perfect idea. It’ll be able to tell us where their mines are laid, but our avoidance of these mines will lead us into killzones. Unless someone has a better idea or wants the Sarusians to turn the airstrip into a moonscape.”


    “Vox your tech-priest and get him started.” Crenshaw commented, nebulously between an order and a suggestion. “Time is not on our side, and we should utilize all of our available assets.”

    “Aye, major. I’ll get Maximus on the horn and get him to recalibrate the tank auspex’s.”

    “Given the layout it would not be too hard to predict where the killzones might be set up,” Alpha said, scrutinizing the map and ignoring the unwanted touch to his shoulder. He had to behave, after all. “But that still leaves the problems of the killzones, even if the first wave is prepared for their positions.”

    He paused a moment to think, arms crossed over his chest as he observed the available maps of their objective and their chosen point of attack. His head then turned up a bit to address the room with a rather grim question: “Do we have any prisoners handy?”

    Valkyr almost choked on her own breath but quickly masked it as a cough from the dust in the air while Alpha simply gave an understanding nod to Crenshaw. “This is the kind of thing I hoped he would avoid,” she muttered, gritting her teeth a bit.


    “Does it happen often?” the other commissar beside her murmured, without turning his head away from the conversing officers.

    “It’s an effective tactic if you have the stomach for it,” Valkyr replied in the same manner. “I was just hoping for him not to immediately jump to what others tend to view as a drastic solution.”

    “Negative, Watchmaster.” Crenshaw was answering Alpha, “Those prisoners who survived the extraction process were euthanized.”

    The major seemed unbothered by the ruthless suggestion. The same could not be said for the Callistians and Legionnaires, whose expressions ranged from muted apprehension to outright disgust at the Kriegan’s intentions and the AAT’s field executions.

    The Callistians’ spiritual counselor crossed his arms across his chest, his expressive green eyes darkened and narrowed as he stared down the Major and the Watchmaster. O’Rourke discretely muttered his profanity laden thoughts in a chimeric mix of languages, which the two ignored – at least until the 44th’s regimental chaplain uttered in what Schenke, Janie and Ketch recognized as Delphic, after being embarked alongside the 94th Triarii aboard the Governor Seydlitz.

    Major Crenshaw’s attention target locked onto chaplain O’Rourke. His own eyes narrowed in thoughtful, questioning appraisal. His intense, calculating gaze shifted to regard commissar Schenke, adjutor Ephese and sergeant Drake once again. Crenshaw’s scarred cheek twitched as he irritably clicked his false teeth and refocused on the discussion without comment.


    “If I may, I think I have a solution for your minefield problem.” Ilianna interrupted. “My boys have been doing some scavenging, and we got a bit of air power that might be able to bombard the minefield enough to clear some space for you, just make sure you can clear the air for a few minutes.”

    “What kind of air power and payload are we talking about here?” Antheia asked.

    “Mostly bolt fire, heavy and hurri variety, with some assault cannons loaded up. A two klick area is easy.” Ketch responded.

    Crenshaw glanced aside at Ketch and raised a fractional, suspicious brow as the Havenite senior officer detailed the distinctive loadout on her regiment’s ‘scavenged’ aerial asset.

    “With all due respect, colonel Ketch.” Antheia’s voice was professional, she didn’t want to offend her. “I don’t believe bolter fire would be enough to clear a path through the minefield. I think you should maintain your bird in a more operational capacity.”

    “We’d gladly welcome you gunship in the north, ma’am.” Quintana offered. “We’ll make their Hydras a high priority, and once we’ve got the Div infantry’s full attention, there’ll be fewer man-portable AA systems for your pilot to duck and weave when you decide to send the flyer.”

    “That works out for us. We’ll have that asset on standby for when those batteries go down.”

    “Allow me to interject.” Willibrood interrupted. ”We’ll need spotters, but I believe we can conduct a more accurate artillery mission. We can commence a creeping barrage, round over round, and cut a straight line into the enemy positions. Our fire will cease as we reach their lines. I doubt the enemy have mined their own defenses. Which means we’ll spare the terminal and starport of our heavy guns.”

    “Major Crenshaw, AAT.” Crenshaw identified as he directly responded to the Sarusian artillery commander. “I can serve as a spotter, since I shall be with the Legion’s northern flanking maneuver to coordinate with the Casterians as the Adrantean loyalists move in to attack.”

    “You...speak Casterian?” Quintana asked, surprised by the revelation and the addition of the Telepathica operative to his company's assault. “Why do you -”

    “I had reason to learn it, as such with any of the languages I have learned.” Crenshaw interrupted, coldly and with an unspoken finality to Quintana’s line of Casterian inquiry.

    “So...you’re a cunning linguist, aren't cha?” Rana quipped from her side table, with another mischievous smile as she worked her vox. Quintana chuckled at the comment, despite himself.


    Lieutenant Linus rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. He’d rather avoid a tongue-lashing from Antheia than tell Rana to keep it in her pants.

    “Baraspini as well,” Crenshaw blithely continued, as he evenly regarded Quintana and Rana without any amusement, “Which will be most useful, as one of the prisoners was a vox-operator, and we were fortunately able to extract the 6th regiment’s channels before he expired.”

    “Fraggin’…message received, sir.” Rana muttered, shaking her head as she refocused on her vox, while Quintana grimaced at the unsubtle reminder of the executed Divinatory Guard.


    “Once our creeping barrage has finished we will switch to smoke munitions and give you some cover for your advance. After which we will leave you on your own and shift our fire. We will provide another smoke screen to allow the Casterians to be safely relieved. Lastly if the enemy attempt a counter-attack on the east we will engage, disrupt and destroy. Questions?”

    “Not from me.” captain Antheia returned. “2nd Company will take the western approach. The open ground is perfect for tanks. I’ll call the targets on our flank, Colonel. If you’ve missed anything our modified auspex will find them. We may need to limit our speed to avoid throwing any tracks during our advance. I don’t exactly want to hit a crater at speed and find ourselves dead-in-the-water. I’m sure the enemy would love a stationary target.”


    “To clarify and coordinate, Captain Antheia, will you take your tanks direct towards the terminal, or turn and address the Divinatory Guard’s northern defenses?” Grace asked, even as she held up a hand to prevent the Cadian’s immediate response. “So we are clear, this is not me pulling rank and ordering you to attack the north alongside alongside Captain Quintana. You are the armored officer, and I trust that you know your business and what your unit can accomplish.”

    “We’ll engage the DG in the North, Colonel. Our battlecannons will be useless against the terminal. Same as the railhead we’ll need the infantry to take it. We can support with heavy bolter and autocannon once the northern pocket is taken care of.”

    “Wonderful.” Grace commented, and allowed herself what may have been the hint of a smile. “We are pleased to have the assistance of your tanks in this assault, Captain Antheia.”

    “I do have a request.” Captain Antheia added. “I want tank riders. We need accompanying infantry to support us. They’ll dismount once we reach the combat zone and follow up providing close support. If there’s one thing our tanks need more of is eyes. I suspect the enemy will have many more hand-held launchers. They need to be pinned, flushed out and neutralised.”

    “That’d most likely be one of my platoons, as no sense in asking the Kriegans to dismount only to have ‘em ride in on tanks.” Quintana responded to Antheia’s request. The Legion captain paused, and glanced aside at his superior officer to see if he had overstepped his authority.

    “Your company to deploy at your discretion, Captain Quintana.” Grace assured her subordinate, although she gave the two captains a cautionary look. “Unfortunately, as much as I would like to, the regiment is fully committed and I cannot divert assets from our other objectives at this time.”

    “Understood, ma’am.” Quintana acknowledged his superior. He glanced at the Cadian, and concedingly tilted his head at her with a smile. “You want tank riders, you’ve got tank riders.”


    “Excellent, we can supply any lasgun PDW’s from our own stocks. We typically carry 3 per tank for local security on a halt. That’s 21 lasguns you can supplement for any second rate small arms your platoon may have. I just ask you leave us with any weapons you swap, I would prefer my crews to not fight with laspistols should they need to dismount.”

    “Ironically, close in’s where the second-rate kit has been proving it’s worth.” Quintana responded with a chuckle. He knocked his knuckles against the distinctive double-celled, integral-bladed assault-las he carried. “From what I’ve seen, it’s a liability in a shootout as it’s roughly half the effective range of a las-rifle...but damn, these bad-boys do serious work within rapid-fire.”

    “Shit...I’m thinkin’ those fat-stub’s we’ve been runnin’ with could be damn useful, when ridin’ in an’ keepin’ pace with the tanks once dismounted.” Buford considered, and nodded to Antheia. “Broadly speakin’, ma’am, in any’a our platoons, it’s roughly half-half mix on assault an’ rifle las in our squads an’ backed with a stubber or missile launcher an’ somethin’ like a flamer, grenade launcher, or melta. Kiki ain’t wrong. We’ll suffer in a stand-off gunfight, but we’re nasty close in.”


    “Good to hear, because that’s exactly what we’re looking for. If you’re in need of more heavy stubbers then, we could always remove some from their pintle mounts.” Antheia smirked. “Throne, if you’re going to be riding with us we could also move the stubbers to the mount at the back of the turret and one of your lads could man it. We’re going to be buttoned down anyway.”

    “We can look into that, after we’re done here and I’ve whistled up one of my platoons.” Quintana suggested. “We’ll run through it with our folks, and figure out what’ll work best.”

    “Sarge!” private Rana broke in, dropping her vox set to her chest to muffle the transmitter against her flak vest. “I’ve finally hit jackpot. Made contact with Decker on the reserve frequency. Looks like he’s been cycling through the channels trying to get someone’s attention.”

    “Decker.” Grace repeated, and paused for a moment in thought. “Your colonel?”

    “Right, ma’am.” Drake confirmed with a nod. “What’s his status, Nas?”

    “Impressive use of initiative, sergeant.” Grace complimented.

    “Thank you, ma’am.” Drake responded, with a respectful nod to her regimental preacher. “Chaplain O’Rourke once said about being Guard, that when we’re not training and fighting, we find something useful to do, and wait.”

    “Ah, tha’s Fitz’s advice...I ain’ ever been so wise.” Gerry softly dismissed. The preacher returned Drake’s nod with a proud smile, as Rana raised her head to the officers with the latest update.


    “He’s managed to pull together two companies from the initial drop and rally near a void tower.”

    “There’s a projector tower east of us.” Captain Gortz traced her finger across the map and turned her visor towards the vox operator. “Can he confirm the co-ordinates?”

    “Aye, ma’am.” Rana returned the vox to her ear. “Forty-Four Actual, this is Sparrow Five, can you confirm your position, over?”

    There was a brief pause.

    “Solid copy.” Rana lowered the handset. “Sector twelve, grid seven beta.”

    Gortz tapped the map. “That’s it. He’s actually holding our flank for us, but he’s right in the path of any Patriot reinforcements. How secure is his position?”

    There was another short vox exchange.

    “Secure but they’re low on ammunition.” Rana reported. She shared a subtle, concerned look with Drake. “However, they’ve got a line open to the Navy for air support.”

    “I wish we’d rate that kind of privilege...” Quintana muttered.

    “It sounds like they need it more than we do.” Gortz rested her hands on the makeshift table. “The faster we dig the Patriots out of the starport, the faster we can link up and take the pressure off them.”

    She glanced back at Schenke, who merely nodded slightly at her assessment, keeping out of the discussion until the officers were concluded. The vox-operator caught the subtle exchange, and that was all the sign she needed to briskly relay the confirmation to Colonel Decker.

    “Good hunting, Forty-Four Actual. Nil Desperandum!” Rana emphatically signed off.

    “Never despair.” Grace translated, and nodded to the Callistian Guardswomen. “Fine words.”


    “Where do you need us?” Gortz queried, looking to Quintana and Worthington-Jones for the answer. “North flank or south?”

    “I would rather your tanks assist our northern attack, Hauptmann Gortz, and avoid the further dividing of our forces altogether.” Grace responded, as glanced aside from the Corrisul officer towards the delegation from Krieg. The colonel’s eyes lingered for a long moment on their commissar, before they redirected to Alpha. “That said, if the Kriegans attack from the south, they could do with some additional fire support...as could you and your Conquerors.”

    “Yeah, Löwe’s taken more than enough punishment on 5th’s behalf today.” Quintana agreed, with a rather rueful smile at Gortz. “Can’t say we wouldn’t miss our guardian angels, though.”


    “Alright.” Gortz nodded, rolling up her map. “Let’s move.”

    “One other thing, ladies and gentleman.” Commissar Schenke took a step forward to be heard without raising his voice.

    “I’ve noted no less than four disparaging comments about the munitorum in the last few minutes.” He cocked an eyebrow, furrowing the scar at his temple. “Would you care to elaborate your grievances?”

    “Commissar Schenke.” Crenshaw answered, his tone as hard and severe as his expression, as he turned to square off against the other black clad enforcer. “If you were truly noting those comments, and focusing on the substance rather than the slights, the nature of their grievances would have have been self-evident - if you had listened to what you heard them say.”

    The commissar’s cheek twitched, betraying a hint of surprise as he turned to regard Crenshaw. The Telepathica officer’s bionic casually rested by his own bolt pistol, as he levelly stared down the commissar with the calm assurance of not being obliged to acquiesce to his authority.

    “Munitorum errors and failures which have led, and will lead to unnecessary deaths of Imperial soldiers is the source of their discontent.” Crenshaw clarified, as he smiled at Schenke. It was cold, and as authentic as half the teeth it showed. “But, by all means, do not feel compelled to take my assessment. Do feel free to detain these officers and have them elaborate for you, while the traitors further maul the Casterians. It’s entirely your prerogative, commissar.”

    “Finally, something we can agree on.” Lieutenant Linus whispered in their localised Cadian gothic. I can see why the girls like you, you’ve got balls.

    You show him, Major. Jannet fought back the urge to laugh at the man's rebuke. Her opinion was shared amongst the majority of the Cadian army group. The Ruse misdirection was an untold waste of food and resources.


    Gerry winced at Crenshaw’s prompt, precise and public excoriation. He was an old, old fashioned man, for whom regimental honor and loyalty were absolute...yet he could not find it in himself to shout down the Telepathica bastard’s assessment. The chaplain inhaled through his teeth, and subtly cautioned the stubborn young commissar against engaging with a slow shake of his shaggy-haired head, and the Schola hand-code gesture of minefield.

    The commissar acknowledged with the slightest nod, but he said nothing for a moment as he re-appraised major Crenshaw. And then another moment.

    And then a moment more.

    “I see why the Patriots picked you for their propaganda flyers, major.” he said at last, with a flicker of a smile, and slid his hands into the pockets of his flakweave coat. “Allow me to contextualise.”

    He turned on one heel towards Janie.

    “What would you say is the job of the Imperial commisariat, Janie?” he asked his assistant, rhetorically.

    The petite adjutor pulled her openly hostile glare off Crenshaw and blinked at Schenke instead. “To make sure the officers of the Imperial Guard do their duty, sir.”

    “And can the officers of the Imperial Guard do their duty if they’re not given the right tools for the job?”

    “No, sir.”

    “As I’m sure you’re aware, major,” the commissar shrugged, looking back at Crenshaw. “The only thing the munitorum hate worse than admitting a mistake is a case without the proper paperwork. So I’ll politely decline your suggestion to detain these officers...but I will take the names of their quartermasters and, if possible, the names of the munitorum departments responsible for their supply.”

    The adjutant glanced aside and whispered something in a mangled down-hive cant. Schenke chuckled, and then apparently decided to share the joke.

    “She said you’re an arsehole, major.” he told Crenshaw bluntly. “But-”

    “I am how I was born.” Crenshaw interrupted, as his impassive gaze shifted down to Janie. He regarded the adjutant for exactly the same extended moments which he had been stared down, accentuated by the soft clink of his bionic thumb and trigger finger on each heartbeat of the hold, before he returned his scrutiny to Schenke. The Telepathica operative invitingly gestured to the commissar with his authentic hand. “I interrupted. My apologies. Please, do continue.”

    “But.” Schenke deadpanned. “She also mentioned that if I carry on, someone here’s going to frag me anyway for being a smart-arse.”

    “Prudent advice.” Crenshaw affirmed with a slight tilt of the head to Janie. “You should heed it.”

    “Aye, an’ the same goes fer ye, ye fokkin’ up-jumped nugget’a self-satisfied grox shite.” Chaplain O’Rourke growled. His eyes were narrowed into cautionary, dangerous slits at the Telepathica operative while he deliberately drummed his fingers on his grenade launcher.

    Gentlemen.” Grace intereceded, voice raised yet not into a shout, with the crisp edge of a woman born and raised with the expectation that her commands would be obeyed. She stared down each of the advisors, and settled on Schenke last with a pointedly raised brow. “Commissar, I do believe you were about to reach your salient point.”


    “Thank you colonel.” Schenke replied. “With all of the previous statements in mind, would anyone care to tell me exactly what the Kriegans didn’t receive to deal with minefields, or what impeded the Legion in aiding their tank support? I’d ask about the Cadians being sent to the wrong planet but that’s rather above my pay grade and I suspect someone’s probably been shot for that already.”

    “Commissar Schenke,” Grace all but sighed, “While I do commend what seems to be an earnest, well-intentioned effort to address our unit’s supply issues...your timing leaves much to be desired. Unless you have it within your abilities to make logistical miracles occur, none of those issues will be resolved before we have reclaimed Baraspine, and certainly not before we advance on Kephistron Altis - which is what should be these officers’ sole concern at this time.”

    “Before the starport, no.” Schenke admitted, “But as for after…” He massaged his chin with a gloved hand. “For the sake of argument, what equipment would be on your wish list?”

    “All the 112th lacks for operational capacity are mine-flail attachments for the Chimeras,” Alpha responded prudently. “It has become standard for the regiment to request such a requisition when entering primarily urban combat theatres. But the point is moot given the time-table and we shall make do without, commissar.”

    Schenke nodded soberly. “Understood. And the Legion?”

    “Better gear might help.” Antheia snarked. “For a force known as the Loyal Legion the munitorum certainly appears to have given them kit from moth-balled surplus.”

    Jannet looked to Grace and nodded sincerely. Grace replied in kind, and looked to Schenke.


    “My...but you are a persistent one - and I do mean that as a complement, adjutor Ephese.” Grace commented, clarifying just as Janie was about to open her mouth. She thoughtfully regarded the young commissar and his aide. “Would that most of the scarlet sashes assigned to my regiment displayed such effort.” She paused. “Positive effort, that is.”

    Schenke and Janie exchanged a glance.

    “The same applies to the majority of my preachers, if truth be told.” Grace dryly opined, as she turned towards Schenke. “To be frank, commissar, my regiment’s equipment issue is political.”

    “As luck would have it, I’m a political officer.” Schenke pursed his lips. “Go on, colonel.”

    “The Munitorum distrusts the 100th as it is a predominantly Adrantean unit, even if these are the women and men the Patriots distrusted and de facto exiled rather than risk them as a loyalist counter-insurgency. Consequently, we have been sent into battle as an underequipped line regiment, on the presumption that when the Adrantean loyalists defect, they will not be as effective against loyalist forces…which, from a certain point of view, would save Imperial lives.”

    “So...we’re deploying a unit that’s purposefully under-equipped...as they’re expected to turn traitor...when they’ve got every reason not to turn traitor...because it will hypothetically save lives...despite the fact we’re practically losing lives…since they’re not kitted out to fight the traitors...” Janie said, slowly. The adjutor massaged her temples, as if trying to soothe a sudden-onset migraine while one eye twitched slightly. “That’s...So. Frelling. Stupid.

    “Aye, aye it is.” Gerry wearily agreed. He smiled with insincere cheer, and clapped a friendly hand on the dazed young woman’s shoulder. “Welcome tae the Guard, miss Janie.”

    “Oh my Emperor…I...” Janie breathed, and laughed with shocked disbelief. “I honestly, truly would rather be shoveling grox shit again…frell, I never thought I’d ever say that...”

    “Think of it as grox-shite by another name, lass.” Gerry counseled with a sage nod.

    Janie snorted a laugh despite herself, and rolled her eyes up at the taller man next to her. “Thanks for the words of reassurance…chaplain…”

    “Anytime, adjutor.” Gerry responded, with a mischievous wink. The chaplain offered a genial, encouraging smile to the Legion contingent as he tilted a thumb at Schenke. “I can vouch tha’ the commissar’s a persistent one in the right kind’a way...so how’s about ye give ‘im the chance tae see what can be done about yer situation? No harm in tryin’, at least.”

    Grace frowned thoughtfully, and then wordlessly nodded at Quintana.

    “Captain Novak’s our new quartermaster, now that Dziedzic has been promoted to XO.” Quintana flatly, almost reluctantly offered Schenke. Buford turned his head at spat at the mention of the supply officer turned second officer. The revelation about the Legion’s chain of command made Chaplain O’Rourke blink hard, and slowly shake his head with quiet dismay.

    “Ye’ve got a POG secondin’ an’ infantry regiment?” Gerry disbelievingly murmured, as the old soldier in him reflexively used the infantry’s derisive acronym of personnel other than grunt. “Tha’s fokked.”

    “Ain’t it just, Padre.” Buford agreed, with an appreciative nod for the old preacher’s immediate invocation of the ancient and traditional biases of the infantry towards their fellow soldiers.

    “Chaplain.” Gerry corrected, with reflexive quickness. “Don’ call me Father, cos I ain’ yer Da.”

    “Uh…” Janie piped up, as she speculatively eyed the fading traces of auburn in the old priest’s beard, and the belligerent reddish-blond of the NCO’s moustache. “Well, you say that…

    Chaplain O’Rourke did not dignify the adjutor’s comments with a verbal response, as his hand cuffed the young woman around the back of her helmet - evidently lightly, as she cackled.

    “Anyhow, about Novak.” Quintana continued, not without a muted grin at the spectacle. “He came in with colonel Worthington-Jones and H&S company, so he’s bound to be around here somewhere, commissar Schenke.” He paused, and there was no longer any grin. “Last I saw, Dirk was with Tresnjak’s platoon...who’ve been tasked on policing the dead. Enemy dead.”

    “LT’s Baraspini. He’s good. Damn good, an’ I ain’t one to be makin’ a habit of complementin’ the officers.” Buford gruffly elaborated, as Quintana nodded to verify. “Commissar Kulkarni voluntold him an’ his mob they was on that shit workin’ party. I’m thinkin’ cos the kid was a DG captain.”


    Schenke bit the inside of his cheek. “I see.”

    “Made it a special point to have ‘em clearin’ out the barricades where the faith brothers did some heavy work with their bayonets an’ flamers.” Buford grunted irritably, and clasped his hands back around his armor collar. “Spouted off some crap on how it weren’t the work’a the righteous to do anythin’ more than purge the heretics an’ traitors, an’ had the militia’s shit detail fuck off.”

    “What a fokkin’ arsehole.” Gerry reflexively commented, and the sentiment was closely echoed by Janie in her own vernacular. The young mutant and the old preacher exchanged a hard look.

    “Well, your words.” Quintana responded with a grim chuckle, and hitched up a forced smile as he crossed his arms over the Merov-pattern assault-las slinged across his torso. “Anything else, commissar? We’ve got more examples than daylight and a company to make ready for action.”


    “Nothing further for now, captain.” the commissar replied. “I’ll leave you to your preparations.”

    He signed the Aquila and turned on his heel, already conversing with his adjutant as he started away.

    “Janie, find a spare vox and get captain Marino on the line. I’m assuming he’ll still be with the echelon and the other strategic reserves.”

    “And you?” the adjutant asked as she shot Crenshaw one final look over her shoulder.

    “I’m going to have a word with captain Novak, since this commissar Kulkarni seems to be keeping him out of the upcoming attack anyway.”

    “And with Kulkarni?” Janie asked pointedly as she trotted along after him.

    “Perhaps.”

    “Commissar versus commissar.” The mutant tapped her chin in mock thought. “Is this what the enginseer meant when he talked about unstoppable forces and immovable objects?”

    “That depends. Which one am I?”

    “The stupid one.”

    “Ah.”

    * * * * * *

    “We could help with your equipment issue.” Antheia paused and looked to Grace. “Provided we follow the proper channels of course.”

    “Of course.” Grace conceded with a nod. “What do you propose, Captain?”

    “The Cadian Army Group is providing the brunt of the invasion and re-appropriation is all to common within the Guard. There will be dead, their surviving kit could be better used.” She made the sign of the aquila at the mention of taking equipment off the fallen, and the devotional gesture was wordlessly echoed by the Legion’s representatives and the old preacher. She knew some of those men, and hoped the war hadn’t claimed too many of them already.

    Emperor be with you Captain Jacktious. Her mind drifted to the commanding officer of their 2433rd sister company. They had fought and died together for most of Telfus campaign. Now they were separated for what might as well been a world away.


    Quintana sucked in a breath through gritted teeth as he considered the tank officer’s solution to his regiment’s Munitorum-mandated equipment shortfall. The prospect of a field army’s worth of certified authentic Cadian war kit was...a staggering one, to say the least, as the grim reality that for each Legionnaire who would benefit...at least one Cadian would have to die. He caught the look in Antheia’s authentically Cadian violet eyes, in the somber conversational lull.

    “That’s...a generous offer, Captain Antheia, and I think I speak for all of us when I say we’ll pray for meager offerings.” Quintana responded to the proposition. He was unsurprised, although relieved, that Buford and the Colonel nodded their agreement. He smiled slightly at the tank officer. “We’re not in a bad enough way that we’re about to hope for anyone’s misfortune.”


    “Misfortune or not, Captain. This is war, as much as I hate to say it. These men and women are going to die. I know it’s cold, but if this equipment can be better used instead of gathering dust in Army Group storage. Well, we might just turn some of your misfortune around. It sounds like you and your lot have been given the short stick too many times.”

    “Ah, well, we all get that stick sooner or later.” Quintana regrettably agreed. He nodded towards his superior officer. “That’s further in the past for us. What was left of our regiments, after the Warmaster’s last crusade, were tasked with quarantine duty out in the deserts on Solomon for eighteen months, at some way in the middle of nowhere shithole called the Makita glasslands -”

    Major Crenshaw’s sudden, violent cough interrupted Quintana’s recollection. He brusquely waived aside Grace’s polite, socially expected glance of concern for his welfare. She returned her attention to the others, while Crenshaw clicked his teeth with a slow shake of his head.

    “Anyhow...it was the type of tasking where, more so than usual for life in the Guard, you don’t ask questions because you’ve been told upfront that’d mean a bolt to the head.” Quintana concluded, with a shrug. “Don’t know, don’t care to know what that was all about...however it was useful, at least, because we were able to talk through our shit and get our heads right.”

    “Shit, there weren’t a whole lot else to do in that damned desert.” Buford snorted. “After that, we were in barracks at Ishtar hive...an’, well, we’re thinkin’ the Munitorum went an’ lost us for a bit, as the Colonel’s 215th an’ us fellers from the 305th weren’t even proper merged, an’ we know they don’t like lettin’ same-world regiments keep on livin’ in sin, out’a bureaucratic wedlock.”


    “We’re swapping war stories? You should have seen the frakking Bluies and their HQ kill-teams. Nothing’s worse than having a unit of battlesuits descend on your headquarters from above...” The 1st platoon Lt paused and added before Antheia stopped him. Rana rolled her eyes behind Linus’ back, and mouthed ‘What the frag’s a Bluie?’ to her sergeant. Drake shrugged.

    “Shutting up, ma’am.”


    Chaplain O’Rourke chuckled slightly, even as his eyes went somewhat distant while Linus recounted his quickly interrupted war story. In the background Crenshaw’s bionic idly scraped together as he turned his head towards them. Colonel Worthington-Jones’ hands clenched tightly behind her back, and frowned slightly as she felt the metal of her marriage band. She caught the Telepathica officer’s intense and for a moment almost soulful eyes as they flicked from the wanted poster behind her shoulder. She bristled as she addressed the Cadian officer.

    “Your suggestion, Captain Antheia, is not within your authority to guarantee.” Grace interrupted, inexplicably sharper than intended. Her brow furrowed, displeased with her unexpected lack of composure. “Would you expect your Colonel...Quirinus, if my recollection is correct, to agree?”


    “I know my limits, Colonel. I’m not the be-all-end-all. I’m offering you a suggestion for a potential solution. I would need to speak to Colonel Quirinus, and yes that’s correct, he will need to speak to the Major General. Who will then have to speak with General Velius, as the Major General is the commander of the Army Group tank corps. This kind of request would require cross regiment co-operation between the Army Groups infantry and tank regiments the latter representing the Loyal Legion, but I believe it’s certainly possible. I don’t see General Velius declining the request but he may ask for your assistance in future if required.”

    Quintana and Buford exchanged a pensive glance at the uncharacteristic, unexpected and unwarranted outburst from their senior officer towards Antheia. The two veteran sergeants, one of them only at heart due to his new captaincy, blanched as they absorbed Antheia’s dissection of the bureaucratic and diplomatic hoops which needed to be leapt through with the Cadians.

    “We’ll be worth asking after.” Quintana confidently stated with a matched grin.

    “An’ in the meanwhile, regardin’ kit,” Buford drawled, as eager as Quintana to move them on, “We got some…leeway, if you’d like, when it comes to claimin’ salvage from the bad Addies.” The burly senior NCO cast a glance at the Havenite contingent, and their eclectic mix of equipment. “So we’d best be makin’ the most’a that option while we’ve got the chance.”

    “Yeah...the boys and girls will be on that like they’re back on hab-block.” Quintana muttered, and shared a knowing chuckle with Buford. “Shit, at this point, they won’t even leave the bolts.”

    “Quite.” Grace agreed, with the prim edge of distaste. It was the well-cultivated tone of polite disapproval which could only be used by those who had been raised to never want for anything.


    Valkyr’s glance after Schenke was rather hard as she re-evaluated her initial measure of the man and his aid. But at the same time she could not stop herself jumping somewhat to the defense of one of her boys since a Kriegan like Alpha was not prone to overly emotional responses. Valkyr, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of such conditioning. “I see no issue in a soldier complaining about a repeated grievance toward the regiment and it’s precious needed supplies.”

    “It’s not like you to get so worked up so easily, Commissar.” The baritone voice was accompanied by heavy footfalls of a last arrival to the meeting. The Kriegan was a towering example of the kind of soldiers the War World could breed when the resources were put to such use. He paused when he had approached enough to see the tactical displays and took a look from behind the specialized gasmask on his face. “Apologies for the late arrival. Colonel Reichenbach, Death Korp 112th. At a cursory glance, I would say my men would find best use on the Northern or Southern approaches.”


    “Colonel Worthington-Jones, 100th Adrantean.” Grace responded, with another respectful incline nod. Suspecting that the Kriegan senior officer would be of a similar mindset as Alpha, and keen enough to get underway herself, Grace turned and gestured towards the holo-map. “Present deployment will be Captain Antheia’s Cadian armor in through the west, once the route has been cleared by a barrage from our colleagues in the Sarusian artillery, and turn to attack the northern Divinatory Guard positions in the rear. That would be in conjunction with an attack on their left flank by one of my infantry companies under Captain Quintana, with the intention to relieve some of the pressure on the Casterian 85th which is stuck-in from here through here.”

    The Colonel nodded silently, keeping his opinions on the Loyal Legion to himself for the time being. He was sure Alpha’s rather brusque manner had given the typical impression most get of Kriegan regiments but as far as Riechenbach was concerned the desire not to join the legions of traitors was proof enough of the steel in the souls of Worthington-Jones and her men.

    “Watchmaster Alpha’s company, as well as hauptmann Gortz’ Conquerors, are currently allocated to relieving the Casterian position. I would rather their units be deployed alongside the Cadians, so as to maximize the destructive force leveraged against the northern defenses. To that end, the Casterians will ideally be advised and organized for a charge timed with our combined forces’ strike. Naturally, the Sarusians will maintain a smoke barrage to obscure our attack from their other defenses.”

    “Sound thinking,” the Colonel responded with a nod while his hands folded behind his back. “Terrain we are well-used to and the Watchmaster will have no issue coordinating with the hauptmann’s Conquerors. Fitting the Chimeras with dozer blades will help clear the rubble from the fighting and remove any troublesome structures as well before reaching the open.”

    “The idea from there would be our consolidated force would strike down, through the terminal and western defenses, and leave the starport for last. Artillery would naturally maintain the smoke barrage, and unless the enemy commander is exceptionally ruthless, that may check any speculative fire from other Divinatory Guard positions if we keep their friendly units in between.”

    “And as a general note,” Riechenbach chimed in with the lull in conversation, “My men are somewhat...stir-crazy, as the saying goes, after such a long time in transit. I will gladly allocate additional units to assist or reinforce the other approaches as well.”

    “Colonel Riechenbach, I would strongly advise your men vent their...excess zeal, as it were, while we take the northern defenses. It is more likely than not we will encounter civilians within the engagement zone, as we advance on the ports.” Crenshaw commented, as he regarded the Kriegan delegation. “It would be prudent to limit that variety of collateral damage as well.”

    “Major Crenshaw.” Chaplain O’Rourke dryly called out, with a dubious expression as he pointed at the crumpled propaganda of the scowling Telepathica officer on the ground. “If ye’d forgive me fer sayin’...ye don’ seem the sort to be losin’ a night’s sleep over civilians casualties.”

    “They are not the concern which keeps me awake at night.” Crenshaw confirmed. He shrugged ambivalently, without even a dismissive glance at the scowling O’Rourke. The old preacher’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as he noticed exactly how the man’s bionic fingers idly touched.


    “Civilian losses are simply a part of war,” Riechenbach added in. “But undue numbers of civilian losses are wasteful just as deploying soldiers in a meat grinder with no promised returns. Civilians are useful tools just as we are all useful weapons. I am in agreement with you, major.”

    “Though civilians can quickly become something else at a moment’s notice,” Alpha piped up. “Isn’t that right, commissar?”

    “When they become potential subjects of a hive-wide mutant infestation, yes,” Valkyr answered with a clipped tone. “You burn the whole city and don’t look back. No matter what. The Emperor Protects.”


    “How...often are hives burnt?” Rana asked, uneasily, as she warily looked to her sergeant. Drake was more stoic than her vox-operator, but there was a tightness about her eyes as she considered what would require the destruction of a hive city and the population within.

    “In most instances, as often as is necessary based on the facts and circumstances.” Crenshaw answered, after a moment of consideration. The Telepathica officer saw the Guardswomen’s grim expressions, and shook his head. “Alda should not require such a resolution at this time.”

    “Tha’s a reassurance.” Chaplain O’Rourke deadpanned.

    “Yeah…thanks.” Rana muttered, with a skeptical glance at her souvenir. “I think.”


    “Having second thoughts, are we? Can’t say I didn’t warn you, you should of picked a better hero.” Linus rattled off to himself in Cadian gothic. Drake shot the the tanker lieutenant a stern, cautionary side-eye. The Callistian’s chaplain also noted the Cadian’s timing, once again after Rana had spoken, and purposefully crossed his arms as he turned slightly towards the man.

    “Of course.” Crenshaw responded. “In regards to the civilian variable, be advised that there have been reports on the traitor band of civil disturbances within their territory.”

    “Would we be so lucky, an’ these are loyalists risin’ up an’ strikin’ at their oppressors?” Buford queried, out of obligation rather than optimism if his dry tone was anything to go by.

    “Unknown, but unlikely.” Crenshaw answered, equally dubious. “Amongst the extracts was a vox account of a Divinatory Guard section massacred in a riot at the Shriken spire import cargo elevators, when their electric fence explosively failed and the desperate civilians overran them.”

    Quintana shook his head. “Now that’s a winning combination...armed and desperate civilians.”

    “Aye, not ideal.” Chaplain O’Rourke agreed, as he sternly looked at the company officers. “But tha’s why we’re the professionals, cos we’ll be handlin’ ourselves professionally out there.”
    Last edited by Jarms48; 10-21-2019 at 01:46 PM.

  9. #39
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    Spoiler: 14th Haven Mechanised, Cam’s Lot Militia - Skaltine railhead 


    Spoiler: 100th Adrantean Infantry, 112th Kriegan Mechanised - Kephistron north approach 


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    Gwendolyn had been resting since she last used her powers, the pain had mostly gone away and she was once again gracefully walking to the front to support her soldiers. While that was happened, the rest of the militia formed up, dragging with them the abandoned ordinance left by the dead/fleeing divinatory guard. While normal guardsmen would probably be told not to do that, such compunctions were ;aid on the 'unprofessional' force, as in the history of Cam's lot, the reusing of fallen enemy arms in the planetary squabbles was common place.


    The defensive line was reinforced with both the heavy weapons of the militia, now set up, and the reclaimed ones, and the mortar and missile teams had moved up to remain in range, and were performing barrages guided by vox call-outs, and they gained something of a rhythm now with the experience they had.


    While it is true that the militia were less experienced, they had numbers, and they were now in defensive positions, and were still confident from their recent victories. The divinatory guard had done a good job reinforcing the railhead, and now that was being used against them.

    Meanwhile, Gwendolyn had reached the front, and once more reached out with her mind. This time reaching into the divinatory guards' bodies, to their blood to boil it, to rip them apart with their own bodies. She cast Haemmorrhage.

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