"Engage in assault pattern omega." Barbarras' metallic voice rang across the vox-links of his company. In an instant, his black armored men split into the omega pattern. It was a three pronged attack, one prong on each flank, one in the middle between the prongs. Supported by armor, it was an unstoppable, unless each prong was isolated and wiped out, not that that would happen to Space Marines.
A warning rune flashed in his retina as his armor's machine-spirit told him targets were in range. With unerring precision, his right arm, sheathed in flawless steel, whose biological components failed him so miserably, raised his plasma pistol and squeezed the trigger, blasting the screaming ork into ash as it ran towards him. His targeting icon twitched to another that the machine-spirit judged he had the highest percent chance of hitting and his finger squeezed again.
The calm, calculated counter-attack used by the Black Claws space marines had the precision of a machine, each marine a cog, fulfilling his task without the failings of other, more biological organisms. Sure, most of the marines were 75 or more flesh, except for Barbarras and his senior sergeant Mortus Kain, but they were the most highly trained soldiers in the Imperium and indoctrinated enough to overcome any obstacle, without the weakness of the flesh to get in their way.
Barbarras was almost more machine than man, with many redundant organs, most of his right arm, his left arm to the elbow, his right leg below the knee, left foot and parts of his skull no longer would fail him with the weakness of flesh. Mortus Kain, who, in due time, would take his place as captain, was machine below the waist, his entire left arm and most of his skull.
To Barbarras's left, Kain stomped by in his suit of tactical dreadnought, aka, terminator armor, followed by his squad, armed with a flamer and a heavy bolt gun. They were the finest squad in his company, grim veterans who had long since overcome the weakness of their own flesh with the purity of the machine.
As the captain stepped over a shattered PDF trench, movement below caught his attention. He sneered in disgust, a squad of PDF troopers, cowering from the fight. Would they not even fight for their own world?
"Get up," he bellowed, causing the terrified men to try and push themselves deeper into the filthy ditch, desperate to get away from the giant in iron, 'We fight for your world, that you lost in weakness! Will you not even fight for your own world?" Still they did not stand. A quick nod to Brother Daulus and the trench was washed in flame. The shrieks did not give him pause as he resumed his advance, alternating between incinerating orks and smashing them down with his power-mace. The troopers were weak, and the Imperium was better off without them.
Flame was Barbarras' human failing. He loved fire and how it purified all it caressed. How fire destroyed biological components as well as metallic. How fire would roll over cover. He loved it all.
The battlefield was a charnel house as the Black Claws pushed forwards, burning and killing as they went. The orks, weakened by infighting and the few PDF troopers who actually fought, were easy meat for the relentless advance of the Claws, the steely perfection of the machine shattering the fleshly anarchy of the orks. Of course, each of his sergeants knew the price of weakness and each coward and shirker was given a choice; stand and fight, or die.
Very few choose the former and each of the latter was one less parasite upon the Imperium.
Barbarus found himself standing near a wrecked hab-unit, decorated with foul ork glyphs and reeking of blood. A quick scan of the area revealed this was a strongpoint. A large, dark-skinned ork was leading a mob of warriors in guttural chanting. Behind them, lay the fetid swamps that would give way to the ocean.
His targeting icon jumped to the dark-skinned ork and his plasma pistol spit phosphorescent death, leaving the ork a smoking pile of ash that the rest of the orks stared at mutely for a moment, before hurling themselves at Barbarus and his squad with reckless abandon. Brother Daulus and Brother Jeph mowed them down with flamer and melta.
"My lord,' called the deep voice of Mortus over the vox, 'we have pushed the orks back into the swamps. Shall we pursue them without the armor?"
"No. We have done enough for this world. It is time for them to fend for themselves.' Barbarras returned. With a flick of a retina rune, he switched to the all-squads frequency. 'Return to the thunderhawks. Our work is done."
"Captain, what if the orks return in greater numbers? We could lose this world and suffer the weakness of the flesh."
"It is time for them to learn the strength of the machine then. It is not your place to understand my orders, only to obey."
"Yes lord."
The Black Claws were the scions of the Iron Hands, not through genes or blood but through honor-bonds and debts. When the Claws were first founded, they suffered much harm from raiders and were almost crippled by the predations of a chaos attack. But an Iron Hands company, the Kaargul clan, led by Bannus and Paullian Blantar came to the chapter's aide, showing them the weakness of the flesh and the perfection of the machine.
"Captain, we received an astropathic transmission while you away." A thrall spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, his head bowed. He was nothing, less than human. He had once been a Space Marine candidate; one of the few young men who were chosen to join the ranks of the Emperor's finest. However, somewhere in the long years of testing and training, he had failed. His life was still property of the chapter and now served those who were his betters.
To Barbarus, the thralls were an epitome of weakness but a necessity. He treated them notoriously poorly and more than once had slain one simply because they had slipped up.
Without speaking, the captain roughly grabbed the data-slate from the thralls hands and shoved him aside while pressing the activation-rune. It was from the chapter masters, recalling every marine and ship back to the chapter keep on Asgard. There were no details given, no explanations offered. It was an ominous sign. The whole of the chapter was never present, anywhere, and most of the companies were semi-autonomous anyway. Something grave was going to happen, something that would require the whole of the chapter to weather.
"Set course for Asgard! Ensure the ship is prepared for battle as soon as we arrive!" They were aboard the rapid strike vessel Unrelenting Fury, a fine example of her class and had been in the chapter since its creation.
The bridge crew scurried to their tasks as Barbarus went to brief his sergeants and lead his battle-brothers through their weapons-rites. There was much to do before they returned to Asgard in two weeks time.