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

  1. #51
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    With the officers’ briefing concluded, Crenshaw turned on his heel and stalked with purpose back towards the AAT contingent who had cordoned off a section of the railhead for their prisoner interrogations. The conversation had taken far too long, to his mind - and had contained far too many connections to his work with the inquisition. It is all a web - and Alia and her kind are the spiders.

    He passed a dead Divinatory Guardsman with blood seeping from his eyes and the burn of an astropath’s handprint seared across the side of his face. Other corpses were slumped beneath a bare-brick wall marked with blood spatter and the exploded holes of las impacts. The sight of his own black-armoured men standing guard around the command post, and the young lieutenant who had been sent by his seniors within the Adeptus as an unsubtle test of his institutional fidelity, brought the major’s mind back into focus.

    Coincidences are irrelevant, and connections can be addressed later.

    “Herman.” he snapped, crooking two fingers to call over his vox operator. “Bring the long-range caster.”

    The armoured, blank-visored AAT stormtrooper carried forward a bulky vox set, and set it carefully down atop the ticket desk that his comrades were using as a table. Crenshaw offered the caster a brief benediction, his bionic fingers whirring as he traced the Cog across its front, and consulted the notebook in his pocket for the Casterian regiment’s vox frequency. He turned the dials and unspooled the headset, pressing one headphone to his ear.

    The Casterians’ vox discipline was good, he noted, with nothing but clipped orders and answering reports flying back and forth across the band. Still, the channel was busy, and the predicament of the overextended mechanised companies was evident.

    “Eighty Five Sigma, this is Fulcrum; report status.”

    The reply was dirtier, half-swamped with feedback from weapons fire.

    “It’s a bit tight here, Fulcrum. We could do with some support.”

    Crenshaw understood a bit tight to be Casterian for their soldiers being deep in the grox-shit and needing help. Alia had made it a point for her tight-knit team - and him - to know and understand one another’s cultural, conversational idioms. The Lady’s talent for contingency planning was impressive, and that mindset had become her agents’ philosophy as well. None more than Prinzel. He reflexively gritted his teeth. For all his current apathy towards all things Casterian, he had to allow that they were stubbornly dutiful. For one thing, Crenshaw knew many units that would not have been so composed as Eighty Five Sigma under the same circumstances.

    “Partial copy Eighty Five, say again?” Fulcrum’s voice was stentorian, evidently a senior officer.

    “It’s a bit tight.” the officer on the ground repeated. “We could do with some support. Some treads would be nice, or a good solid Thunderbolt run.”

    “Eighty Five Kappa is en route. Hold until then.”

    There was a momentary pause.

    “Yes sir.”

    “Keep us appraised, Eighty Five.” the commander replied, and there was a scratch of static as he signed off. “Fulcrum out.”

    Crenshaw clicked his prosthetic teeth. It was just as well that all communications were conducted in crusade-standard Calixian, as he had made a point of not speaking Casterian since his wedding night. The fact that Prinzel had been behind Alia’s scheme to promote Kally and send her off on a one-woman war against the Patriots still never failed to set a sharp pulse ticking in his neck. Blanks might not dream, but his nights were still haunted with images of Kally lying dead on some forsaken battlefield - never to be found or recovered, only left to rot while vermin chewed through the remains of her glassy brown eyes. Or captured alive…

    Crenshaw’s augmetic thumb found his ring finger, the dark metal plates grinding together. He had made vows of his own, and he would keep them. There would be even less of Prinzel and Machairi left, if anything happened to her out there. If anything...

    Not now. the major chided himself yet again, bringing his teeth together with a sharp snap. He stabbed down the transmit rune on the vox set.

    “Eighty Five Sigma,” he spoke into the transmitter stalk. “This is major Crenshaw at the Skaltine railhead.”

    Although it left a bitter taste in his mouth, he spoke Casterian. It was unlikely that the Patriots would be able to crack their way past the Imperial scrambler codes, but if they did then the security of the mission trumped Crenshaw’s aversion to his former colleague’s mother tongue. He couldn’t let the assault fail just because he didn’t have the right code-signs, and because he was holding a grudge. In addition, his...reputation within the so-called Adrantean Republic had spared him from the firing squads after the secession. He needed to leverage it against his numerous enemies within the Imperial crusade, as much against the Patriots.

    Crenshaw scowled as he envisioned his likeness in the secessionist propaganda. Exactly like that high-gloss piece that Callistian horndog waived in my face. He almost smiled at the unlikely thought of signing an autograph, but could not as he remembered the sight of Kally…his wife..on a wanted poster. If they believe I am their worst nightmare, they are fools.

    “Receiving, major.” the reply came, in the same brand of Low Gothic. Much like Crenshaw himself, the Casterian was too professional to betray any hint of surprise.

    “Eighty Five, be advised that a friendly attack is imminent against Kephistron Altis. Be aware especially of Adrantean loyalist units on your right flank. Any coinciding charge you can muster when the attack comes will be useful.”

    “Taken under advisement, major.” the Casterian replied ambiguously, with a hint of steel in his voice which told Crenshaw that he did not appreciate an outsider ordering his men into danger. “Be advised, Casterian reinforcements are already en route.”

    Crenshaw chewed his tongue at that, thinking.

    “If they are not due in the next half hour, Eighty Five, then they are wasting their time. Crenshaw out.”

    “Major Crenshaw!” the stentorian voice from before cut across his headset as he was about to switch it off. “This is Fulcrum.”

    Crenshaw ground his teeth, his finger hovering over the vox’s power rune. He withdrew it.

    “Identify, Fulcrum.” he stated.

    “Colonel Dunov.” the voice replied imperiously. “Officer commanding, Casterian Eighty Fifth.”

    Crenshaw tapped his metal fingertips against the ticket desk. “And what do you want me for that is important enough to clog up this channel, colonel?”

    “Repeat, Crenshaw.” the voice calling itself Dunov relayed, sternly. “Be advised, reinforcements are already en route. Redirect your forces. There must be other objectives to take and hold.”

    Crenshaw pursed his lips and exhaled. “What is the ETA on those reinforcements, colonel?”

    “One to two hours.” Dunov replied, without a hint of irony. “If you don’t think my men can hold out for that long then you don’t know the Casterian Armoured Infantry.”

    “One to two hours.” Crenshaw clacked his teeth. “Confirm.”

    There was a pause as the voice at the other end of the line began to seethe with impatience. “Confirm.”

    “Then as I said, you are wasting your time. I suggest you redirect to a more urgent objective.”

    Major Crenshaw.” Dunov growled, in a voice that oozed aristocratic venom. “The starport is the Casterian objective. This was planned prior to landing, and if Imperial officers don't have the discipline to stick to High Command's plan, everything goes to shit.”

    Crenshaw smiled fractionally as Dunov revealed his true objection to the imminent attack. So much for Casterian honor. He continued to smile as he calmly responded. “Plans tend to go to shit upon first contact with the enemy, colonel. Wise men adapt.”

    “Who do you think you are, major?” Dunov exploded. “You’re just some lowly Telepathica intelligence officer, with no business interfering in knife-edge military operations such as this! The Emperor-damn Adranteans might seem to think that you’re the second coming of Horus, but on my battlefield you and your men will fall to command!

    “You are working under the false assumption that I am commanding these forces.” Crenshaw replied smoothly. “If you wish to take it up with the officers commanding, they are using vox band aquila three.”

    Dunov quietened a little. “Then with all due respect, major,” he growled, in a tone that indicated that he thought the respect due was very little, “Get off the vox and stop wasting my time. Your dirty, plebeian Casterian is grating on my ears.”

    “My apologies.” Crenshaw exhaled softly down his nose, and switched to an officious, Hyrixian inflection which inferred complete and total disdain for speaking to a lesser order of humanity. “I learned the common accent from a lowly merchant’s son.”

    “I assure you, it tells.”

    “You would have saluted that lowly merchant’s son as General of the Royal Infantry, but for his oath to a Lady.”

    He suspected that even if Dunov had been in the Guard at the time, an aristocrat like him would have received an astro about the xenos-infestation on Casteria - and exactly how, and by whom, it had been saved. He left the implicit statement of association hanging for half a heartbeat.

    “Inq-” Dunov began to bluster.

    “Proceed with caution, colonel. Crenshaw out.” the major stated flatly, without the pretense of any Casterian accent, and turned off the vox. He had other business to attend to if this attack on the starport was to stand a chance of succeeding.

    “A pleasant conversation, sir?” The query came from his nominal subordinate - and no doubt minder.

    Crenshaw hmm’d indifferently as he handed the headset to Herman. “Nearly as productive as it was tedious, Urquhart.”

    Lieutenant Urquhart was a wiry, unsmiling woman, nearly two decades younger than he. He had encountered her once when they were assigned as partners for the AAT blacksoul breeding programme, and then again three months prior to the crusade.

    And I refused her. A tactically nonsensical move on my part. The Akkan telepathica complex had had many security recorders, and even more prying, watchful eyes. He had known that word of his tryst with Kally would filter right back to legus Telek, and that as soon as it became known that he was working with her once again, his blacksoul superior colonel Cummings would send someone to assess his clarity and resolve. It was, after all, what Crenshaw himself would have done, had he been in command.

    Despite her brown eyes and caucasian complexion, Urquhart had not truly looked much like Kally - although that had not stopped them from trying; dying her hair in red-tipped blonde and sending her to him stripped to her AAT bodyglove so that as little as possible was left to his imagination. Certainly tempting, for anyone immune to her soulless aura. It was a strange irony that many if not most of the blanks Crenshaw had interacted with had been pleasing to look at, but since he did not believe in irony extending to the natural selection of the universe itself, it had often led him to wonder if it was down to some, other, design.

    I knew why she was there. I knew who sent her. And I just glared at her and told her to leave while she still could. The safest, most logical thing he could have done would have been to accept her advances, and thus remove both himself and Kally from suspicion. Maybe Kally herself would even have understood, had he been foolish enough to confess to her. But Crenshaw had not been thinking logically. He had been thinking of his wife’s face, and the words they had spoken in front of father Belannor in that little downhive church. His mechanical thumb whined quietly as it scraped against his ring finger.

    Cummings was frakking with me when he assigned her platoon as my escort. Again, it was what he might have done, had his sabbatical with inquisitor Machairi not prevented him from being promoted ahead of his old colleague first.

    At least he could appreciate that Urquhart’s own success and rise to platoon command proved that she was capable in her own right. Naturally. Otherwise Telek would have disposed of her. He wondered if Telek and Cummings had told her that she was being sent to him as a test, instead of simply another scheduled genome harvesting. If she had not known before, she certainly knew by the time I threw her out of my quarters. She was too professional to let it affect any of their interactions here on Baraspine. That was another point in her favour, Crenshaw could not fail to note.

    “He sounded upset.” Urquhart brushed her dust-filmed hair away from her face as she spoke. It was brown now, Crenshaw noted. He hmm’d in agreement and turned back towards the rail tracks, knowing that the feelings of colonel Dunov meant little and less to both of them.

    “Emperor willing, you have not compromised his focus.”

    That made Crenshaw glance sharply back. He saw Urquhart looking at him blandly, one semicircular eyebrow cocked upward. It was a remarkably accurate imitation of the face that he himself favoured.

    So that is what it feels like.

    It almost made him feel old to be on the receiving end of such a warning. But, by the same token, he had been a master of the art for many more years than his former breeding partner.

    “I am not to be taken lightly.” he said, responding in kind to the lieutenant’s veiled caution. I have killed AAT agents before. Did they tell you about Bayless and Maldonado, when we were all prisoners of the Silver Prophet? They were far from the only ones. “The successful conclusion of this crusade is my only concern.”

    Urquhart’s neutral expression did not falter. “We are all praying that the reclamation continues swiftly, sir.”

    Crenshaw resisted the urge to grind his teeth as he realised that there was a message behind that statement too. Right now I am too useful to the crusade to eliminate. But as victory for the imperium becomes more certain…it becomes less relevant if I were to quietly disappear.

    Crenshaw was acutely aware of how many colleagues and superiors within the AAT would be willing to sacrifice him on the altar of Imperial politics. It would seem that he had identified one more.

    + + + + + +

    Commissar Valkyr had left the meeting in somewhat dubious spirits. She was pleased that the Colonel had managed to show up and that, for the most part, the other regiments were not reacting poorly to the presence of the Kriegsmen. But she could not help wonder about the so-called ‘Loyal Legion’ and the state of her fellow Commissariat officers. Valkyr tended to get on...questionably well with her peers as a result of her posting. But in the end as long as she was permitted to do her job, she could remain on good terms with them.

    She had paused in her trek away from the railhead in a rather unfortunate spot that stank of death. ‘At least this time the smell is real,’ she thought rather grimly.

    “Commissar.” The voice was female, albeit vox modulated, and wholly indifferent. “For what reason are you here?”

    There was something particular about the kit of AAT sentries and guards that made them a bit more of an intimidating sight to most people, Valkyr mused as she let her eyes flit between the two. The Commissar had not ended up by their perimeter on accident and had, at least in the Commissar’s mind, good reason to be there. “I need to speak to Major Crenshaw.”

    A small nod before the sentry who spoke to her spoke sidelong into her vox link for confirmation. There was a somewhat pregnant silence in the air before the black visor of the woman turned back to Commissar Valkyr and gave a short, stoic nod before moving aside a bit to escort her into the perimeter proper. A bit of relief went through Valkyr as they walked in grim silence. While she had blanket authority in dealing with those under the direction of the Munitorum, she had no means with which to bully AAT personnel and the two sentries escorting her were clearly aware of that. But at least they were not being pointlessly obstructing. Perhaps a bit of luck was on her side.

    Speaking of luck, they encountered Crenshaw after only a few minutes much to the veiled surprise of the Major and amusement of Valkyr. Perhaps he had expected a different Commissar? Her thoughts were interrupted when she noted how the Major was looking her over and her jaw tightened just a bit as her mind jumped to the obvious conclusion. But she relaxed as she recognized the particular expression his eyes held: The Major was sizing her up and that brought the smallest of smirks to her lips.

    She was starting to like him more already.

    “Commissar Valkyr.” Crenshaw acknowledged. The blacksoul curtly gestured with his bionic hand, and the squad of Telepathica soldiers who had followed in his wake wordlessly filed past them. He raised an expectant brow.

    “Allow me to be as brief as possible, Major,” Valkyr said, falling into step beside Crenshaw with hands clasped behind her back. “I need to know what the...desired outcome of the impending push to the starport is, if there is one. The last thing I or anyone needs is the squawking that tends to accompany a Death Korp unit doing its job. I come to you with this as you seem the most well-informed and, frankly, honest officer here.”

    The blank hmm’d impassively.

    “The most desirable outcome is we take the orbital launch facility at Kephistron Altis in operable condition and avoid a civilian massacre.” Crenshaw answered after a moment of consideration. “The realities on the ground are less than desirable, as the Divinatory Guard are not incompetent. If they have not already begun to disable the facility now that Navy aeronautica are in range to intercept their escape rockets, I expect they shall begin sabotage efforts in earnest once their perimeter has been breached.”

    “Then it is lucky to a degree that the 112th moves rather quickly once they get their momentum up. Barring anything truly unfortunate, securing the objective in working order should be doable.”

    “In regards to the civilians, we should reconcile ourselves to the reality that Governess Vel-Cyvasse has escaped.” Crenshaw continued, obviously unbothered by the failure of the Guard’s nominal objective. “We should also reconcile ourselves to the reality that a significant number of the non-combatants at Kephistron will be congregated at the starport - the lesser members of the Baraspini court within, and along the southern perimeter there are desperate plebeians who have fled in the hope of salvation.”

    The blacksoul officer clicked his prosthetic teeth with ambiguous irritation.

    “As I had suggested to Colonel Riechenbach, unleash the Death Korps without reserve or remorse against the northern defenses. It is as purely a military target as we will encounter in the assault, and it is in our advantage to expeditiously break traitor’s perimeter, degrade their cohesion, and fracture their morale.” Crenshaw shot her a sidelong glance. “I trust the Kriegans will not disappoint.”

    “Oh I do believe the Colonel is gathering his men to do just that, Major. When faced with such a solid military target, they will show no mercy and do all that is needed to grind the traitors to dust. As for the non-combatants at the southern perimeter...there may be some hope for them yet. And perhaps even for some those cowering in the starport.”

    The blank hmm’d, thoughtfully this time, as he decreased his stride to an almost casual stroll.

    “In your experience, Commissar,” Crenshaw asked, with a speculatively raised eyebrow, “when once allowed off the leash to enact the Emperor’s vengeance - with as much righteous vigor as they can muster - are the Korps able to be brought back to heel?”

    “Only at the words of someone they trust. And with prior instructions. If given such instructions as to, for instance, be vigilant for the sight of civilians at the starport, then the Korpmen will exercise some manner of restraint. Moreso if I am there to remind them in the heat of battle. But on the other hand...it might take a touch of convincing. Especially if, say, once the enemy is backed into a corner certain elements wish to try to force a surrender from them.”

    She was almost conversational in her tone. The Commissar had brought out surrender simply as a means of an example and perhaps to indicate she was more aware of what was up and about than she let on. When the blank hmm’d once again, she thought she detected the faintest hint of approval in the non-verbal acknowledgement.

    “If certain elements wished to try and force a surrender, and should that objective be accomplished,” Crenshaw responded, almost conversationally, as he concedingly tilted his head towards her, “I would imagine the Kriegans, rather than being required to act against their nature and exercise some manner of restraint, would be more productively utilized in a rapid redeployment to assist the Callistians who are holding our flank - liberated to show no mercy, and do all that is needed to grind the traitors to dust.”

    The blacksouled officer was evidently enjoying the obliqueness of their conversation, by his vague hint of a smile.

    “In your experience, Commissar, would that make for a convincing argument for your Korpsmen to briefly stay their wrath?”

    “Oh that will be a perfect argument for the Korpsmen, Major,” she responded with a short nod. “Alpha is, thankfully, a relatively easy officer to please in that regard. And possibly be willing to stick around just long enough to let his men be used as a threat to ‘convince’ the traitors to lay down their arms. But with enough traitors to put to the sword, the sons and daughters of Krieg can be lifted of their burden of sin for the day.”

    “Certainty, not possibility, is what I would expect to hear from a Commissar when referencing the field discipline of their regiment.” Crenshaw countered mildly. There was no hint of the blank’s prior amusement, as he halted to regard her with a slight frown. “As you have no doubt noticed, Commissar Valkyr, the traitors have a damnedably excellent grasp of propaganda - a fact with which I have…first hand experience.”

    The blank’s bionic fingers scraped together as they passed his hard visage on another article of propaganda, impassive except for the raised eyebrow as he stared imperiously down at them. He exhaled down his nose, and refused to look at his likeness.

    “I am also certain that I do not need to elaborate on how disastrous a substantiated account of Imperial soldiers massacring Patriot soldiers and desperate civilians caught in the crossfire - in the midst of demanding their surrender - would be for the crusade effort.”

    The redhead let out a dry laugh at his words, fixing the Major with a sidelong glance. “When speaking of the zeal of the sons and daughters of Krieg one must not fall into the trap of certainty. However, the gravity of our current situation has been impressed upon my regiment and they will conduct themselves in exemplary form. And I feel I must clarify, the possibility was in them immediately moving to redeploy elsewhere rather than sticking idle waiting to see if the traitors were willing to throw innocent lives to the sword along with their own.”

    “No doubt the Divinatory Guard will come to reason after experiencing Korps bayonets.” Crenshaw dryly responded. He thoughtfully hmm’d one last time, and offered his authentic hand. “Fight well, Commissar. It would be inconvenient if you were to die.”

    She grasped his hand firmly after finally turning to face the Major directly. It was then he could note more clearly how, despite smiling almost the whole way during their talk, the expression never quite reached those hard, piercing eyes of hers that seemed to share the vibrant scarlett shade of her hair. “The sentiment is mutual, Major. You’re the first pleasant conversation partner I’ve had here and it would be a damn shame to lose your particular wit. May the Saints watch over you.”

  2. #52
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    Joseph Schenke liked to think that he was not a squeamish man. What little revulsion at death the schola progenium permitted was well and truly quashed by the time one graduated from the officio prefectus. Even so, the butchery left in the western side of the railhead was an assault on the senses. Dusty streaks of clotted blood showed where bodies had been dragged, and orphaned limbs and slopped piles of entrails fouled the rockrete.

    One corpse stared at Schenke from his position slumped against a barrier gate; his Divinatory Guard mask had slipped askew, and his scalp had been popped off like the top of a boiled egg. Flies were already buzzing around the red liquid still cupped inside his skull.

    Every breath was smoke and laser ozone and opened guts. Schenke resisted the urge to hook his damaged rebreather back up around his nose and mouth - the soldiers slumping and cursing as they gathered the dead had no such luxury. He accosted the closest two with a look as they carried a dead Baraspini clear of the rubble.

    “Commissar.” the older of the two deferred, the word half a question as his eyes darted across Schenke’s unfamiliar uniform. Schenke had worn his flak coat open so that the identifying red sash was evident - although, he reflected, that was unlikely to be an endearing sight to a platoon put on corpse detail by another such political officer. The two men facing him, like the rest of their work party, wore the green Aquila armbands of colonel Worthington-Jones’ Loyal Legion.

    No faster way than this to turn that moniker into a deadly joke. Schenke thought, as the Adranteans dragged another mutilated corpse from the rubble.

    “I’m looking for captain Novak.” he told the two Adrantean legionnaires in a neutral voice. “Is he here?”

    “He’s where we was headed.” the younger of the two man answered, his terse words spat through gritted teeth. Schenke expected he would have seen a scowl, had the younger legionnaire not had his back to him.

    Hoyt!” the older man chided with a pointed, warning look.

    “Llewellyn.” the younger man responded, coolly and quietly.

    “The boy intended no offense, commissar.” the older soldier assured. His gaze bored into his companion, before he raised his head with a tired, apologetic look. The grime from corpse detail made his slightly age-lined face appear older than his years. “It’s...well...it’s been a rough task.”

    “Yeah...no offense intended, sir.” the younger soldier repeated, hollowly. He shrugged the dead weight clasped in his arms for an improved hold.

    “I won’t take any.” Schenke replied, “Given the circumstances.”

    Hoyt sullenly nodded ahead. “This fugger’s more heavy. He’s more intact than most.”

    The dead Baraspini’s loosely hanging arms swayed, severed at the forearms by a crusader’s blessed blade. The sectioned ends reminded Schenke of an anatomical diagram.

    He regarded the two legionnaires for a moment before turning to look down the barricade line. A knot of soiled Adranteans were trudging back into the defences turned charnel house, where they wordlessly paired off to select their next miserable burdens to bear. Schenke did not envy them; from what he could see most of the corpses in the next section were the shrunken, twisted victims of a flamer, and many appeared to have been fused together.

    In the opposite direction came a macabre procession led by a Baraspini, who almost delicately cradled the head of the sheared torso he carried underneath its arms, so that the faith mask remained in place. The legionnaire who followed stared fixedly ahead as he dragged the other half behind him by the boots. The next two were females, and had a Divinatory Guardsman’s arms yoked across their shoulders, so neither had to handle the splintered nubs of his legs beneath his knees. The corpse’s mask was absent, and Schenke could see where a penitent’s Aquila, a line-flanked vee, had been neatly carved into his forehead by a careful, patient hand.

    Hoyt’s detached, humorless laughter drew Schenke’s attention back to the two legionnaires. Llewellyn frowned at his companion, with evident concern etched in his dirtied face. He opened his mouth, as if to offer some elder wisdom, and then wordlessly pursed his lips. The older man sighed heavily, and shrugged himself for a sturdier grip as he squinted at Schenke.

    “Watch your step, sir.” Hoyt commented, as he glanced over his shoulder. Schenke saw the crust of blood and dirt on his flak, and the ballistic goggles strapped around his helmet. His face, aside from the pale skin around his hard eyes, was fouled by the remnants he had not been able to brush off. The Adrantean smiled a bitter, fragile smile as he stared at him. “The loose bits are a trip hazard.”

    “Captain Novak’s at the collection point, doing what looked like an inventory.” Llewellyn said, in answer to Schenke earlier question. He gave the commissar an expectant look as their dead Baraspini’s bisected arms idly rocked. “Commissar...if we might be allowed to proceed there as well?”

    Schenke exhaled slowly down his nose. The Legion’s own commissar had issued the order, leaving him in a weak position to countermand it.

    “Stand aside, private Hoyt.” he said, sighing out the last of his breath.

    The Adrantean hesitated, then allowed Schenke to take his place carrying the armless man. As Schenke looped his hands under the corpse’s armpits, the masked head lolled back against his stomach.

    “I’m told this detail was your own commissar’s orders.” Schenke confided in Llewellyn as they manhandled the body across the yard and into the trailer of a waiting half-track. “That being the case, me pulling you off the detail here would only land you in trouble.”

    “As you say, commissar.” the legionnaire replied tonelessly, though the way his shoulders slumped just a fraction betrayed what the older man was thinking.

    They trudged back towards the barricade where the Legion were struggling to separate the flamethrower’s victims. The bodies cracked and squelched as they were pulled apart. Two of the burned corpses in front of Schenke were frozen with their arms reaching forward, beseeching him with blackened fingers.

    “That said.” Schenke added. He had paused a moment to frame his words, unable to say what he really thought and directly undermine the authority of a fellow commissar. “I question the value of you being left here to shovel corpses when your colonel has-”

    He broke off, looking down, as something below him twitched.

    The burned corpses lunged up at him, screaming.

    Schenke’s hand was instinctively halfway to the bolt pistol at his hip before he even saw the man behind the clawing, char-black fingers of the dead. It was a Divinatory Guardsman, grey fatigues blackened by blood and viscera, gibbering in incoherent terror as he thrashed his way clear of his burned squadmates. His helmet had been knocked off and his buzzcut hair was matted with blood, smearing down across the Two of Adeptio stamped into his gas mask. His eyes were stark white, trapped behind the metal.

    One of the burned bodies landed on Llewellyn, who yelled in shock and tried to throw it off. Somehow the man erupting out of the corpse pile had laid hands on an entrenching tool, and it came swinging at Schenke just as he was yanking his pistol free. Schenke’s vision spun, and he tasted the dust and gravel between his teeth before he even felt the pain singing out from his split cheek.

    The Patriot was up and moving, running on terror adrenaline, battering aside the corpse-encumbered legionnaires in his way.

    Down!” The shouted order was in the crusade’s Calixian, moderately tinged with a Baraspini accent. The legionnaires obeyed, and threw themselves aside or into the muck to clear a firelane.

    A lasgun snapped, and caught the Divinatory Guardsman just as he was scrambling over the barricade to the street outside. For a moment the holes in the Patriot’s faith mask blazed with light - his wild eyes and open mouth glowing green for a brief instant before his head exploded. The decapitated corpse slumped, its bloody entrenching tool spinning away across the rocks. The Two of Adeptio mask landed in the middle of the roadway, face-up and smoking.

    The lasbolt had scored a jade line across Schenke’s vision. Blinking away the afterimage, he traced it back to a compact man in a viscera soiled flakweave coat and a plain metal faith mask, who stood with a battered lascarbine drawn tight against his shoulder. The man had a lieutenant’s rank pins on his collar, and the Baraspini mask and accent allowed Schenke to narrow down his identity.

    “Lieutenant Tresnjak, I presume.” he grunted, as he and the rest of the Legion corpse detail pulled themselves up from the rubble. He grimaced as the words twisted his split cheekbone. That hurt too.

    “Yes sir, one moment.” the lieutenant replied, his voice strained as he lowered his lascarbine and raised a grimy glove towards him. Tresnjak turned as more of the Legion, most of them marked by the filth of corpse detail, hurried down the trench in response to the shouts and gunfire with weapons at the ready. He pointed towards his vox operator. “One hostile, neutralized. Send an all clear.”

    “Sir!” the young woman acknowledged, and darted away from the commotion as Tresnjak continued to task his subordinates.

    “Second squad, get this area secured and check our people. Everyone else, double check that the dead are actually dead. If they are not…” Tresnjak hesitated for a moment. “Grant the Emperor’s mercy, blades only. Quick, clean, and professional. Dismissed!”

    Schenke watched as the Legion dispersed almost as promptly as they had arrived, and the grim expressions as they trudged back into the abattoir of the trench. He noticed the familiar dirtied face of Hoyt amongst the trailing end, and so did the Baraspini officer.

    “Hoyt, a medic for the commissar.” Tresnjak quietly ordered, as he indicated towards the Cadian sector of the captured railhead.

    “Sir. Yes, sir.” Hoyt responded, and dashed off with what appeared to be genuine hustle to Schenke’s estimation.

    “What’s going on?” a harassed-looking man with captain’s rank pins demanded as he stumbled over, a las pistol clutched tightly in his hands as he furtively assessed the scene. “Did you say the Moustache got hit…?”

    He broke off as he saw Schenke’s spade-split face, and something very like disappointment flashed across his own before he had a chance to hide it.

    The Moustache, Schenke noted, tensing his jaw against a threatened flicker of amusement. He had often wondered what the Callistian rank and file called him behind his own back. The humour died instantly as he considered the bigger issue - this officer clearly held no love or respect for Kulkarni either, and openly used the disparaging nickname around the enlisted.

    “Joseph Schenke.” he introduced himself, “Callisto 44th.”

    “Novak, sir.” the captain replied, now standing very rigid and looking like he would rather be elsewhere.

    “Just the man I was looking for, as it happens.” Schenke said, bringing a hand up to his cheek and inspecting the blood that came away. “Unfortunately a Patriot found me first.”

    “Commissar Schenke, sir.” Tresnjak broke in, snapping stiffly to attention. “I wish to offer my name for a disciplinary report.”

    Did he think I was about to punish his captain? Schenke turned to look at the masked lieutenant. “And what exactly would I charge you with, lieutenant?” he asked flatly.

    “Negligence, sir.” Tresnjak replied, with apparent sincerity. “Allowing a political officer to be injured...failure to assist a political officer...failure to secure a captured strongpoint...nearly allowing an enemy combatant to escape.” Schenke could see the man’s throat working nervously. “Have I, er, missed any, commissar?”

    Schenke bit his tongue as he felt the beginnings of anger stirring in his gut. If this was the way Kulkarni had treated his legion, then the rebellion he was assigned to prevent was practically guaranteed. He exhaled.

    “If random frak-ups like this didn’t happen, lieutenant.” he told Tresnjak. “It wouldn’t be a war.”

    He turned to look at the headless corpse of the terrified Patriot, and almost felt a stab of pity for that man too. The rebel’s faith mask was still lying in the middle of the road, staring up with empty eyes. The Two of Adeptio, Schenke noted, trying to recall. Learning and striving, or something like that.

    It had been Ella Seren’s card, back when she was still loyal, and he her escort to a posting she would never actually reach. Ironic, then, that a man with the same Tarot had nearly killed him. If the Greed’s Reward had never been attacked, would I still be here now? Would she?

    “You contained the scene well enough, given the circumstances.” Schenke assured the stiff and apprehensive Tresnjak, before lowering his voice a little. “The only thing I could fault you for is calling a medic just for me. I get the impression your men wouldn’t be happy to see another commissar getting special treatment while they have to grub around in the dirt.”

    Tresnjak swallowed. He was eyeing Schenke warily through his mask lenses, though Schenke thought he saw his shoulders slump just a fraction. “Begging your pardon, commissar,” the lieutenant said, “Saying it was for a commissar is about the only way I could get a medic to come. Our Legion isn’t exactly popular with the rest of the Guard, not to mention those Sisters from Coseflame whose convent got lanced.”

    “And, with all due respect commissar.” Llewelyn broke in. The old soldier had appeared behind Schenke and was now using his unloaded lasgun as a crutch as he squinted through the mask of black blood that the tumbling corpses had given him. “You don’t play the hard man when you’ve been smacked about the face with an E-tool that’s been marinading in said dirt, along with a load of blood, guts and shit.”

    Schenke grunted, conceding the elder soldier’s wisdom with a brief flick of his eyebrows. “Both fair points.”

    “Schenke?” a familiar down-hive cant cut across the scene. Janie came bounding across the rubble, a nimble black rat in her fluttering flak coat and snouted gas mask. Her eyes behind the lenses were almost admonishing as they fell upon his latest scar. “Seriously, sir, I leave you alone for five minutes.”

    Schenke snorted a brief chuckle, which pulled painfully at the gash in his cheek. “I’ll be fine. Did you have any luck with captain Marino?”

    “He’s chewing his nails off back there. Apart from the survivors with colonel Decker, there doesn’t seem to be a button left of the second wave - at least not a button that can fight.”

    Schenke glanced pointedly back towards the platforms where they had left Drake, Rana and chaplain O’Rourke. “Well there’s us, and the men that Gerry was able to gather. You should advise Marino that we’ve located more survivors, but they’ve lost a lot of their gear with the Valks, and require rearming.”

    Janie took his meaning. “I’ll tell him that about a company’s worth should do the trick.”

    “That sounds ideal, Janie. Go and tell Gerry to expect the delivery.”

    No sooner had the mutant scampered off once more, another round of shouting flared up from across the station forecourt. Schenke heard a harsh voice bawling in Calixian gothic, and a Baraspini accented voice protesting in reply. In response to the exchange, Schenke saw the hatchet-faced captain Quintana sprinting across the station, looking furious.

    “Commissar!” the captain yelled, and the word was enough to get Schenke himself up and running towards the commotion. Quintana briefly vanished as he vaulted down onto one of the deserted train tracks, and when he dropped down after him Schenke saw a legionnaire being accosted by a tall, wiry man in a black flak coat. The man turned at Quintana’s shout to reveal a scarred face of terracotta brown, framed by tight dark curls and dominated by a fierce black moustache.

    The Moustache, Schenke recalled grimly, grinding his teeth.

    Kulkarni’s bulbous eyes were narrowed, his expression carved from stone. When he turned towards Quintana, Schenke saw that he had a bullwhip looped around his hand.

    “Captain Quintana.” Kulkarni growled without missing a beat. “I understand that this is your rifle this man is carrying?”

    Schenke’s eyes went to the other man; a short, lean jackal of a soldier in a Baraspini mask, wearing the same rag-tag battledress as his Legion comrades. The standard lasrifle clutched to his chest was longer than Llewellyn and Tresnjak’s carbines, and unlike their battered finish he could tell at a glance by the rifle’s condition that it had only belonged a single Guardsman. Schenke could only wonder as to the effort it took on the munitorum’s behalf to dredge such worn, forlorn kit from the depths of the surplus warehouses.

    “Well?” Kulkarni barked. “Is that your weapon?”

    “It is.” Quintana snarled, biting down at the end of the word.

    “The punishment for theft is fifty lashes, private Gorecki.” Kulkarni said with glacial calm, turning on his heel towards the legionnaire.

    The smaller man was holding his ground by sheer force of will, though his desperation was evident as he dropped one hand from his stolen lasgun and waved it sharply towards Quintana.

    “Commissar, sir, captain Quintana gave it me.” He turned his masked face to look imploringly at Quintana. “Tell ’im, sir.”

    “I traded firearms with private Gorecki just today, commissar.” Quintana said, trying and failing to keep the bite out of his words as he indicated his own slung lascarbine. “My company is undersupplied with designated marksman’s weapons.”

    Kulkarni’s face could have been cast from granite, but Schenke heard the bullwhip creak as the man’s fist tightened around it.

    “It is not your place to question the decisions of the munitorum, captain. It is your place to do your duty to the Emperor, with the tools He has provided you.”

    “Yes, sir.” Quintana ground out through clenched teeth. “And so I exchanged weapons with private Gorecki. Sergeant Majewski informed me he was with the loyalist partisans during the Dominion Crisis, and even at fifteen he was better than all the other snipers in her unit.”

    “Commissar,” interjected another masked Baraspini, a female with sergeant’s stripes and curled hair as steel gray as her faith mask, “I can - ”

    Silence!” Kulkarni barked, the sinews in his neck straining as he disregarded the soldier’s corroboration. His eyes narrowed, just slightly, as he regarded Quintana. “You accept responsibility for this unsanctioned transfer of weapons?”

    “I do, commissar.”

    There was a long pause, the two men staring each other down in a mutual target lock.

    One hundred lashes, captain, to be carried out after the battle is done. If you die, your men can watch me flog your corpse.”

    Schenke could see the captain’s angular jaw working.

    “By your order, commissar.” he said at last.

    For another long moment Kulkarni didn’t move. Then he turned on his heel, and Schenke heard the sharp snap of the coiled bullwhip against the other commissar’s boot as he strode away.

    Schenke watched Kulkarni retreat, his flak coat fluttering about him like a pair of dark wings. He gritted his teeth.

    “Commissar!”

    Kulkarni halted instantly, and as he spun round the dark wings fanned around him like an eagle warding a rival away from its kill.

    “Why are these fighting men on corpse duty?” Schenke barked across the train tracks that separated them.

    Kulkarni’s targeter-scope gaze fell upon Schenke for the first time, and the corners of his eyes tightened as he appraised the unfamiliar insignia on Schenke’s uniform. Schenke in turn noticed that Kulkarni did not wear the Legion’s green armband, and had the rune sigil for Terrax’s Schola Excubitos embossed into the gorget of his gleaming, Aquila marked carapace.

    “And under what authority are you asking, comrade commissar?” Kulkarni asked, glacially.

    “The only authority that matters.” Schenke answered. “That of the immortal Emperor, and of the annointed warmaster crusading in His name, and of her need to have every man working towards the objective of taking this city.”

    “This sector is taken. Idle hands do Horus’ work, and these miscreants could use a lesson in what happens to those whose faith and loyalty wavers.”

    Schenke clasped his hands behind his back so that the other man wouldn’t see them clenching into fists. “Having observed your men, comrade commissar, I can report that your lesson is well learned. Now, with the compliments of the officers whose briefing I have just attended, I request that you immediately discharge lieutenant Tresnjak’s platoon for combat deployment.”

    Kulkarni’s stony face darkened. “Don’t presume to give orders to my company when you’ve already martyred your own, comrade commissar.”

    Schenke was suddenly very glad that his adjutor was once again absent, dealing with the vox operators. Janie would no doubt have drawn a weapon on Kulkarni for that last comment - quite possibly her blade-tipped tail.

    “I’m presuming nothing, sir.” he returned. “But I would have to raise a memorandum of concern to lord commissar Tyne that an entire Guard platoon was being improperly used, set to clearing enemy corpses when there’s still-living ones to be turfed out of the starport. Your colonel will need Tresnjak’s platoon mobilised in the next ten minutes.”

    Schenke could see the gears turning behind the pulsing vein in Kulkarni’s forehead.

    “I will verify this deployment with colonel Worthington-Jones.”

    “As is your prerogative, comrade commissar.”

    Kulkarni turned on his heel and withdrew, his vulture-wing flak coat snapping angrily at his heels.

    Schenke exhaled a deep breath, not caring if the legionaries saw it, and turned to Quintana. The Legion captain had evidently sent his soldiers onwards to make themselves ready while he exchanged words with Kulkarni. He was regarding Schenke with wary eyes.

    “That was a commendable show of solidarity, captain.” Schenke said.

    “I want to do right by my men, commissar.” Quintana replied stiffly.

    Not to mention you’ll be the first one shot if Kulkarni pushes the Legion to rebel. Schenke thought. You and the colonel probably hate this assignment even more than he does. The difference was that Quintana and Jones weren’t taking their anger out on the men.

    Schenke twisted his mouth, while Quintana shook his head, and irritably clicked his tongue. “Commissar Kulkarni’s not wrong. I should’ve had the thought of trading my rifle to a marksman long before now, and done the damned paperwork as well.”

    “I...apologise for what it cost you.” Schenke said. “Unfortunately I can’t overturn a charge already passed...but I could perhaps nullify it with a bravery commendation. The Guard doesn’t whip its heroes on the same day it honours them.”

    Quintana chewed the inside of his cheek. “Sorry, commissar. May I ask exactly what you’re saying.”

    “I’m saying fight well at the starport and you’ll have a commendation from me. Kulkarni can’t overturn my judgements any more than I can overturn his.”

    Quintana seemed as if he were about to say something, and then thought better of it. He settled on giving Schenke the same dubious look as when he had brought up the prospect of improving the Legion’s weaponry.

    That reminds me.

    “Also,” he added, “Stick close to chaplain O’Rourke. He’ll be receiving a supply truck in the next few hours. Help yourself to any surplus - that’ll be most of it, by the way - until I’ve had a chance to arrange something official with captain Novak.”

    He squinted down the railtrack, over which Kulkarni had disappeared to go and interrogate the commanders.

    “And if the Moustache kicks off about that unauthorised transfer of weapons, tell him it was by the order of commissar Joseph Schenke, and that he can go boil his arse.”

    His gashed cheek was throbbing again. Gritting his teeth against it, Schenke turned to climb back onto the platform and found his path blocked by private Hoyt, returning with a medicus in tow - or rather, a medica. The healer was a woman with the sororitas fleur de lys inked behind one ear, clad in dust-stained hospitaller robes fluttering over white plate armour.

    “I was told there was a commissar down?” she asked.

    “That would be me.” Schenke said, raising his hand. “Though down was a bit of an exaggeration.”

    The Sister regarded him. She had a youthful face, though Schenke noted the smoothed crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes which told of one or more rounds of juvinat work. He hadn’t met many Sisters who feared growing old in the Emperor’s service. This Sister’s order had to be either very undermanned or very wealthy - quite possibly both.

    “What happened?” she queried as her hazel-green eyes roamed over Schenke’s comparatively minor injury.

    “A rogue Patriot with an e-tool.” Schenke told her. “If lieutenant Tresnjak has other wounded who are in a worse state, you have my permission to treat them first, Sister…?”

    “Roxanna.” the Sister replied. She was evidently shrewd enough to grasp the real situation, and it made her frown. “You should not have to claim a senior officer down just to get help for your company.”

    Tresnjak glanced aside at Schenke. “Forgive me for embellishing the truth, Sister.”

    “That won’t be necessary.” Roxanna waved him off as she set down her medicae satchel and pulled it open. She shook her head. “It was like this during the viral outbreak on Gravio as well. They wanted me to treat the victims based on their station, instead of their need.”

    “It’s true that our station is...low, Sister.” Tresnjak said carefully. No doubt he was thinking of the other Sisters he had mentioned earlier.

    “Your Legion is loyal.” Roxanna said firmly. “And in more than just name. Your men had no part in this heresy.”

    Tresnjak glanced towards Schenke again. “It’s kind of you to say so, Sister.”

    Schenke caught the Baraspini officer’s eye and offered him a nod. It was good to have another potential ally.

    “Now.” Roxanna said, pulling a string of morphia vials from her satchel. “Who among your company needs the Emperor’s aid the most?”

    + + + + + +

    Dust was thick in the air, and the shifting rubble underfoot made the going treacherous. The building had been a tailor’s shop, until an artillery shell from one side or the other had taken a bite out of the roof and spat the debris across the street, bringing most of the upper floor down in the process. One of Crenshaw’s Telepathica escorts stumbled on a softer patch of wreckage, and cursed quietly when he saw a grey hand clawing up out of the broken bricks.

    Crenshaw lowered himself to the ground, and crawled up an artificial slope of debris until he had a view through the broken window. The airfield perimeter fence was a hundred metres distant, and beyond a flat plain of cracked earth and weeds was the airfield strip. Two bullet-holed Thunderbolts lay where they had been caught on the ground, and further back a fat civilian airliner belched smoke from a wing engine. Herman wriggled up beside Crenshaw and slowly raised the speaker of the long-range vox set to his face.

    “Colonel Willibrood.” he spoke into it. “Oculus is in position; you may commence fire mission.”

    “Received, Oculus. Firing for effect.”

    For half a minute nothing seemed to happen, the crash of the Sarusian guns lost amid the distant blast and thunder of a city under siege. Then there was a brief whistle, answered by a vibrating boom as a large chunk of the main runway leapt upwards and was immediately hidden by a plume of white marker smoke.

    “Willibrood, Oculus. Marker is on target.”

    “Copy Oculus. Salvo fire commencing.”

    + + + + + +

    “Should we return fire, captain?” lieutenant Ennius voxed through to Antheia.

    “Negative, Maximum Precision.” the company captain returned firmly. “We can’t see shit through this smoke and we’d only give them something to aim at. Hold fire, repeat hold fire.”

    “What a rubbish war.” Ennius’ gunner complained, wincing as a stray piece of concrete kicked up by the mortars cracked against the turret side. “Now we’re not even allowed to shoot at stuff.”

    Ennius chewed his tongue, but he knew his commander had made the right call. He cupped his throat-mic. “Ennius to second platoon, hold fire.” He thumped on the locked turret hatch above his head. “That means you on the turret as well, mamzel adjutor!”

    “Don’t worry boss!” Janie’s voice crackled back through his earpiece. Schenke’s adjutor was hunched behind the side of the turret, hugging it like a windbreak against the incoming enemy fire. “I won’t paint a target on your back!”

    “Understood, captain.” Granger acknowledged over Mad Man’s infantry phone. “Brother Lowe, if you’d spread the word on your side?”

    “Affirmative, lieutenant.” Dieter the preacher responded from behind Maximum Precision.

    “Can’t you use your damned com-beads or squad voxes for that?” Linus commented irritably, as the vox was briefly occupied by muffled shouts as the Legion’s leaders spread the word to hold fire down the line.

    “Can’t use what we don’t have, lieutenant.” Granger answered, through what sounded like gritted teeth.

    “We need the smoke to clear.” Antheia’s voice came again as Maximum Precision ground steadily across the rubble, following the lead of Janie’s footslogging commissar. “All units continue to advance, and try and give the infantry some cover while you’re at it.”

    “We appreciate it, although we’d be even more appreciative if you could dial the Sarusians for counter battery.” Granger voxed back. “Indirect hasn’t ranged us in yet, but it’s getting uncomfortably close. We’re slow moving targets right now, captain Antheia.”

    “What would the infantry’s solution be for the mines which are slowing us down?” Linus countered with mild asperity.

    “Sweep the runway with your hull HBs, if they’ll depress that low?” Granger suggested after a moment of thought. “I’d expect the bolts would penetrate at near on point blank, and when they detonate they’d shift the ground and hopefully trigger what’s left?”

    “The tracers will allow any competent anti-tank gunner to approximate our position through the smoke.” Linus was quick to naysay. “They wouldn’t even need any bloody bluie heretek to score hits.”

    “If I might suggest a compromise.” Preacher Dieter interjected with polite precision. “We continue to allow the smoke to clear and hold fire. Captain Quintana’s assault will be imminent, and the Divinatory Guard ahead of us will presumably have to address them. Once their fire has slackened, as they contend with the Legion and the Kriegans, we advance to strike against the traitors.”

    Ennius leaned away from his scope to clap his gunner on the shoulder. “Do we have range on the warehouses?”

    “Estimate one thousand.” the gunner replied, twisting the dials on his eyepiece as he tried to find an auger mode that would penetrate their own screen of hot artillery smoke. Ennius didn’t mind as long as the distant Patriots around the starport were having the same trouble sighting their anti-tank guns.

    “Load H.E.” he ordered. “And get some A.P on the ready rack in case we meet that Throne-damn Vanquisher again.”

  3. #53
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    “How’d everythin’ go with Moustache?” Buford asked, once they had reconvened and sent the command squad ahead to assemble the platoon officers and their seconds for a briefing.

    “Son of a bitch was going to give Gorecki fifty lashes for having my rifle.” Quintana recounted, drawing a low, impressed whistle from his first sergeant. He grimaced slightly as he titled a pointed look Buford’s way. “Hundred for me, living or dead, cos I wasn’t about to let that shit go down that way. Not when the sorry bastard’s all but begging me to take the heat off him.”

    “Emperor damn, Kiki…” Buford rumbled. He hawked and spat to clear his throat as an almost editorial comment on the matter. “Y’all best be hopin’ Afolayan ain’t gone an’ got herself killed in the meanwhile.”

    “Praying she hasn’t, and not only for my hide.” Quintana agreed as he marked the Aquila points over his flak vest. “We’ll really be up the sump discharge with ‘stache as our senior silver skull.”

    “You ain’t kiddin’.” Burford agreed with a disbelieving shake of his head. He thoughtfully punched a fist into his opposite hand, and glanced at his captain. “Fuggin’ still, hundred lashes, livin’ or dead?”

    “I shit you not.” Quintana affirmed with a wry flick of his eyebrows as he turned towards Buford. “Schenke, from the 44th, offered a bravery commendation if we do well. Said the Guard doesn’t whip its heroes on the same day it honours them.”

    Buford’s handlebar framed mouth quirked doubtfully as he allowed that comment to hang in the railhead’s dusty, smoky air. The two veterans chuckled grimly as they walked onward.

    “Anyhow, he had some words with Kulkarni.” Quintana continued with a shrug. “No idea what went down, but with how steamed ‘stache was when he stalked off, it must’ve been a Commissariat measuring contest in which our boy came up the short shaft.”

    Buford guffawed sharply, and grinned at him. “Like we had any fuggin’ doubt?”

    “None whatsoever.” Quintana exhaled a laugh. He thoughtfully scratched his bristly cheek. “Anyhow, Schenke arranged for some 44th kit to come our way. Commissariat version of ‘it fell off the back of a truck’, and essentially said to tell Moustache he said to screw if he complains.”

    “My, ain’t we all makin’ nice splendidly.” Buford commented archly. “Well, mighty decent of ‘im, and that’d explain Kulkarni’s sour puss when he butted int’a our conversation with the tankies.”

    “How’d that all work out?” Quintana queried.

    WIP - Platoon officer's briefing and character development.

  4. #54
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    Spoiler: 100th Adrantean infantry, 112th Kriegan mechanised, 2451st Cadian armoured - Kephistron assault 
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    PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.


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    Spoiler: Legio Sirenia, Perinetus shipyard hull 
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    PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.


  6. #56
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    “Watchmaster!” a faceless sergeant shouted across to Alpha. “They’re well dug in around the central cluster! It’s a job for the infantry now!”

    Valkyr heard Kulkarni shouting somewhere to her left, haranguing the Loyal Legion into another attack. It made her smile. She wasn’t about to allow herself to be outdone.

    Game on.


    “Agreed, Sergeant,” Alpha replied curtly before swapping to their secure vox. “Prepare for close engagement. If you get turned around in the smoke and dust, just look out for the Commissar.”
    It was advice that had worked out well in the past. Valkyr’s peaked hat was unmistakable as was the Kriegan mask she wore which had an added adornment in the form of a plasteel skull-shaped plate that fit over the front. The Commissar certainly looked the part of the “Lady of the Dead” as she unsheathed her sword and activated the power field. Her lasgun was slung across her back as she did have something of an image to maintain.

    “Now!” Alpha barked as he slammed a fresh power pack into his rifle. “Soldaten, mach den Weg frei!”
    With the Chimeras moving to a support formation and the heavy weapon teams at their back, the infantry of the 112th detachment made their mad dash. Alpha and Valkyr were, as was only right, at the front with the first wave. The sharp cracks of the higher voltage Lucius-pattern rifles stood in stark contrast to other las-fire around and the grey wave were terribly efficient in their covering fire as the men and women of Krieg played the role they were infamous for.

    Valkyr just hoped that if her fellow Commissar in the Loyal Legion tried a similar plan, he would take full advantage of the in-the-enemies-face distraction of the Death Korp. After that passing thought she slammed shut the box kept just for her more distracting emotions. She could celebrate their victory and mourn the dead in private as she always did.

    Someone had to mourn for these boys, after all, even if they no longer had names.

    “Antheia, Alpha, we’ve found your Vanquisher! I need a killzone to lead this beast into and I need it now!”

    A Vanquisher. That explained a bit about why certain parts of the front had stalled to a halt. Creating a killzone for such a monster would be a trick but, in Alpha’s experience, there was little that could stand up to sustained autocannon fire. “Acknowledged,” Alpha replied over the channel as he slammed his back into a piece of cover in the midst of the Kriegan advance. “Chimeras, reposition to support the tanks. Eyes out for a LR-V and spare not a shot when you get a visual. Make the beast an open target!”
    The revving of engines sounded as the Chimeras moved off without a second thought. They were sturdier than the typical Chimera, this was true, but that still meant nothing in the face of a Vanquisher’s firepower. The drivers and crews knew that but this was a moment they dreamed of: to die gloriously fighting the Imperium’s enemies.

    After all, men and materiel could be replaced with ease.
    Hit me up on discord: Mags#3126
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  7. #57
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    The sound of turbines roared to life among the makeshift landing area in the Haven landing zone. The great Stormraven, patched together and with several identification numbers and icons either scratched out or painted over slowly rose into the air. In it's hold nearly a full platoon of Haven's best were gathered. Lead by Sergant Jens they were the backup in case the starport assault went ploin shaped.

    It looks like that assault had in fact gone ploin shaped.

    In the cockpit the pilot could be heard rattling off confirmations and falsified ID's
    "AN Tower call sign Valhalla taking off."
    The pilot didn't wait for a response. The large ship blasted into the air and rocketed towards the sky stopping well outside AA range.
    "Alright boys we'll be in posistion in ten minutes. Once we're in the hot zone we'll drop to just above cloud level and use that glass storm to scatter their radar. Once over I'll drop us into the storm. Should give us enough of an opening to drop you in."

    Jens nodded and turned to his men.
    "Right, our objective is simple enough. Drop in, light the bastards up, take key posistions and make it easier for the others to secure the starport. We'll be in storm conditions this time. We'll probably have to do this at sub 100 meters so be sharp, the SR will give us cover fire for as long as it can but once we're on the ground it's us and the Enemy. Keep close and keep your head on a swivel.

    Drop location should be just on the roof of the control building, failing that we're aming for the hangers. From there we need to fight our way to their radar and disable or destroy it. Then we need to target sniper nests, arty positions and heavy weapons empalcements."

    Jens knew as well as any other man here that most of them wouldn't be standing here in the next few minutes. Thats how these drops were. But they had to be done. And they were the men to do them.
    "We should be coming up on our drop zone soon, lets go make Illi proud boys."




    "Life before death,
    Strength before weakness,
    Journey before destination."
    -The First Ideal

  8. #58
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    Holding space for Cadian's and Sarusian's.

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    "Urgh, dorokk me." Jurgen said, putting a hand to his head to shield his eyes from the light. "Gah, did anyone catch the Grox that kicked me?" Jurgen said, trying to sit up but the pain in his stomach stopping him. He breathed calmly, confused. Two krak grenades had gone off in his lap, and yet here he was. Through bleary eyes he saw Miliamen finishing off wounded divinatory guard with knives, and picking them over for spoils, even ripping out gold teeth. "So...we won?" He asked. "The Emperor...Protects." And he passes out once again.

    A militiaman soothingly pats his head, and only then sees a glowing white butterfly land on the back of his hand. When he looked up, he saw the graceful form of Lady Gewndolyn. The militiamen parted as she knelt down before Jurgen and removed her mask. Leaning down, she kissed his forehead, and Jurgen shivered as a layer of frost formed on the ground around him and her, white flowers sprouting, and his bullet wound closing, the projectile falling out of the now nonexistant hole. "The lady has healed him, praise be!" Said a militiaman, and the chant took up with more saying it.

    Spoiler: Things I like 

  10. #60
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    "Sensori, keep that lock. Motive, quarter stride. Moderati, you have weapons. Levvi, manifold congress now."

    "Aye Princeps!" Came the round of responses from her cockpit, strong and sure and confident. Zoerrin grimaced as Rosa lurched forwards, Brenae briefly leaning too hard on the steering columns to get traction, but recovering well.

    +Watch you're footing, Brenae.+ Amoria canted, on a channel she didn't think her princeps could hear. +Maglocks are treacherous under microgravity conditions. Slow and steady wins the race.+

    +Right. Damn, this is hard. Jeanne, keep the sensors loose on a sweep track. Just because we have a lock, doesn't mean there isn't anything else up here with us.+

    +Watch you're own position, Brenae.+ Jeanne canted back. +I'm busy tuning out this damn hull metal for a solid fix.+

    Zoerrin grimaced again. Simulation hours, no matter how intensive and diligently pursued, could never match for real live fire experience, or the alchemical effect of camaraderie forged in combat. Her beloved Moderati Lorelei was planetside, preparing to take command of Lupus Vengea, and Hange felt the loss as keenly as if she had lost a lover or sister.

    But her crew were good. Jeanne was building a full tactical map with admirable speed, providing data before her princeps and crew needed it. Brenae was quickly adapting to the difficult environment, managing the careful motion required, and Amoria was managing them both, so Hange could turn her attention inward to the titans function, and outwards, to the tactical situation. Something serious ached in her abdomen, enough to make sitting in her throne uncomfortable. She pulsed an order to her techpriestess to chase that down, give her a diagnostic, because if that was a motive system, two motive-kills would cripple the execution.

    Levvi appeared as a hazy green phantom in front of her, followed by Lenz and Rosen. Levvi looked grim, worrying at a nail, more serious than Zoerrin had seem him in 30 years of deployment. Lenz looked pained, and drained of colour even over the manifold. Rosen looked angry. Both Rosen and Levvi began to talk over each other, but Zoerrin held up a hand for quiet.

    "If the enemies claims are true, and they have. . .wiped the Throne Mechanicums of their Knights, then this war may get a great deal more serious." She begun. "Levvi, tactical appraisal?"

    "We fought an entire banner of Questoris Errants, and we've seen two more Knights, both more configured for ranged combat. At a guess, we can expect to see at least 4 more knights, making two full banners. But we could be looking at a much larger force." He shrugged. "Three banners might make sense. 18 suits total, it would allow for a garrison rotation."

    "Those poor bastards" Rosen muttered. "I doubt these rebels were gentle with them"

    Zoerrin agreed, and silently commended their souls to the Omnissiah. Hopefully, they had been taken hostage. If not, then Zoerrin and her comrades would avenge them.

    "A cautious advance, we sweep every hiding place and make sure we aren't going to be ambushed." Knights could kill Titans, especially en-masse. Zoerrin had never seen it, but during the Heresy War as many Titans had fallen to massed Knight assault as had the guns of traitors. "Rosen, you have point. If it looks like an enemy, shoot first and ask questions later."

    "What about me?" Lenz interjected.

    "You're immobilized, Lenz. Limp over to our downed Knights and project void shield cover, provide overwatch, and wait for the follow up teams."

    +++++

    Krista watched the remaining active units tip-toe away towards the stations looming hub, and cursed her damnable luck. She rubbed her knee, which still hurt like a bastard, called up an external view of the knee actuator, and winced. The knee had been locked to take pressure before the next step of Furvus Maria, and that had been why it had been crippled in one hit, and why they hadn't fallen. The missile had had an effect much like a sledgehammer hitting a tin of guard rations on its side: hydraulic fluid and actuators had squirted out the sides of the knee joint as it crumpled under the dual pressure of the titans mass and the sudden missile strike. To add insult to injury, it had drained hydraulic pressure from the entire lower leg. Her toes felt numb, as if cold, or from blood loss, and her shin suffered with pins and needles.

    For some reason, she couldn't help thinking about that dumb cat they had gutted on the Lathes landing field. A bad walk indeed.

    "Give me full motive control, Kaldon, detailed ground mapping please."

    She felt the wounded animal of Furvus Maria whimpering in the back of her mind, hissing like a scalded gyrinx. She soothed it, but took a firm hold of it as well, and gritted her teeth.

    Settling back on the undamaged leg, she swung the dead leg up and clear before placing it down again, forward. Then, locking key joints, she swung the torso round, resting the titan on its damaged leg.

    There was pain, but not as much as she feared. The microgravity was helping here, rather than hindering. Her shin woke up to complain at her as stress alarms came to life, but she ignored them. Over a few agonizing, ungainly minutes, she got Furvus Maria to stand over Sinister Witness.

    "Anything else shaken lose?"

    "No Princeps." Her steerswoman answered. "Permission to take back control of motives?"

    Krista chuckled, and willingly passed back control.

    "You sound worried. Unlock the torso and give me full 360 traverse. Arletta, if you feel up to it, get outside and give me a full rundown on the damage I'm looking at. And see if you can rig something up to get me back in this fight."

    Krista ignored the binharic cursing of her reactor domina, and went back to massaging her shin and knee. The pins and needles had come back with a vengeance.

    +++++

    They marched forward in the shadows of giants, watching sensors for spoor, trace of the dishonorable foe. Seydias was sweating in his suit, but after the ambush by the Dominus and its spotter, he didn't dare take his eyes from the sensors. The Knights had been placed into the rearguard, as they had the edge in maneuverability over the lumbering Reaver.

    +I still have the bastard locked.+

    Rosa had been rearmed since the fight on the surface. Its carapace retained the twin turbo laser mount, but the volcano cannon had been swapped out for a boxy, brutal looking melta cannon. On the left arm, a menacing powerfist swung back and forth as the titan advanced.

    +Feth this damn cover!+

    The light from the turbo was blindingly bright against the starfield, bars of neon searing across his vision.

    +Partial hit, shield noise confirmed+

    A heavy beam weapon spat back. It splashed across Rosa's shield, leaving a livid bruise of unlight, before a hail of bolts slammed into same spot. The shields flickered, but held.

    +Idiot+ Hange growled. +Returning fire+

    The Reaver fired again, and this time the melta added its voice to the argument. In the airless void, Seydias could only track the beams path by spotting metal dust, vapourised in an instant, that was caught in its path, glittering like quickly born stars then melting away to nothing.

    In the distance, something rumbled and exploded.

    Shellfire licked up, from two sources, tracers blitzing in against the Reavers flickering shields. Rosa walked into the fire like a man striding into heavy rain, and returned fire with its guns even as the fire intensified on its forward shields.

    +Armigers+

    +Engaging. Behind you boys.+

    Void hardened skitarii were swarming from hatches and voidgates studded across the docking spar. Seydias turned his own thermal cannon on them, and watched with grim interest as the invisible beam popped the cyborg soldiers like blisters. His heavy stubber coughed into life, driving a fireteam back into cover. Erin walked his Knight Acheron forwards and played the inferno cannon over the infantry teams, driving them back or cooking them where they stood, the clinging, flammable gel burning even in the void.

    +Anti walker weapons. Watch your ankles+ Erin nonchalantly voxed as his paired heavy bolters coughed to life. Plasma beams, ghost fire in the void, splashed against Erins Ion field, and rad-counters pinged as Skitarii laid down sheets of rifle fire to hold back the engines from the stations hub.

    The station shock again as the Reavers fusion cannon fired again.

    +Fragging well die you scrapshunt piece of shit!+

    +Got the armigers+ Rosen confirmed.

    The turbo blasted again.

    +Confirm that kill for me, Seydias. I want the scrapshunts tilt plate for my trophy rack!+

    There was a pause as their formation formed up again.

    +And someone find me that Paladin. I want one of these bastards alive for interrogation.+
    Last edited by dakkagor; 04-27-2020 at 09:18 AM.

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