The warp-storm bristled with furious luminosity within the void of space. Baleful colors of purple and pink shone forth with a light of insanity, bathing the emptiness of reality in the blighted rays of the warp. Its mass was nonexistent, its wind an intangible and impossible occurrence. Thunder possessing the essence of the nether crackled out from within it, lit with colors unknown to man, creating sounds from nothingness that echoed as screams and whispers of the unknown. Throughout the emptiness of space these sounds were known to all who heard them, they were the screams of death, and their pitch shook the very fabric of reality.
Suddenly the storm began growing and shrinking simultaneously, in a manner impossible to perceive through the limited dimensions of our reality, pulling and pushing against the absolute blackness of the void, until warping and tearing what was not even there was accomplished. The storm dissipated violently reaching out through time and space to claim all within grasp into its dying embrace. The warp-storm Madrada had blown through the Aingreek sub-sector for 647 imperial years standard, and as of this day, it blew no more.
Chapter 1 Death's Message
Initiate Vibbon ducked low into a roll beneath the slicing blades of the combat servitors. Rotating quickly he came up, continuing on in his stride the instant his feet touched floor. For the tenth time another man-machination blocked his path. As with the others, it's vat-grown flesh was pale as if undernourished and its body consisted of a head extensively augmented with mechanics, carried atop a thin wasting torso that was mounted on a small track unit.
As the servitor thrust at him with two drill-tipped arms, Vibbon swayed to the right, effortlessly dodging the attacks of his speed enhanced foe, biological enhancements of his own working in tandem with reflexes honed through countless hours of training. Gripping the cold metal of the limb just behind the drill-bit, he forced it into the lobotomized-slaves other hand, and then both on into the plascrete wall. Vibbon pressed on even as the spinning heads connected in a loud screech of warping and contorting metal, which carved a deep groove in the plascrete and ruined each other in the process.
He had reached the half-way point, grabbing the diamond-tipped combat spear on the plinth before him. The aim of the training exercise was to overcome 10 combat servitors in a narrow corridor, acquiring a prized item of one's own choosing and making it back to the starting point.
The training room was seemingly empty, though in its entirety it took up a full deck on the strike cruiser Hunt-father's Spear, so it was unsurprising that the initiate had this area to himself. Nicknamed the Valley of blades, this area was comprised of over 50 varying corridors, each of which had its own unique challenge to it, ranging from corridors of drenched mud slopes with hails of arrows, to desert sands with concealed traps of saws and spikes.
Though invariably different in size and environment all had the same transparent or semi-transparent plascrete walls, made so for outside observational purposes. The corridor that Vibbon was using was in the simple form of two plascrete walls, separated by a walkway 40 meters long that could fit roughly 3 men abreast wall to wall, the 10 combat servitors were placed in ones and twos along the path.
Vibbon had begun the challenge at the opposite end of the corridor, unarmed and unarmored but for the thin fabric of the dark gray exercise bodysuit he wore. Regardless of the physical exertions he had just performed his breathing was fairly steady, the fused plates of his ribcage could be seen slowly rising and falling beneath the suit's grey fabric and the bulging muscle below that, but yet had more than a bead of sweat had been perspired. He had sustained a few shallow cuts in his efforts, though all had been near fully healed by his enhanced biology and but for the slits in his clothing these wounds would go easily unnoticed.
A high-pitched chime rang and a mechanical but noticeably feminine voice alerted him of the increase in combat difficulty level by a factor of two. Raising the weapon up before him vertically in two hands, Vibbon knelt and mouthed a prayer of benediction to it, before turning to face the ten forms of the combat servitors. Readying his weapon, the initiate exhaled at length as his twin heart rates increased, flooding his body with sensory-enhancing chemicals, potent adrenaline and combat-stims. Enhanced muscles bulging in anticipation, the man charged forward engaging the drill handed servitor once again.
Though the metal warped and speed slowed, the drills it possessed were still trust with deadly force and not to be underestimated. Taking an open legged side-on stance and holding the spear with his right hand at its center and left at its haft, the initiate struck out at his foe, quickly pulling the spear tip to the right and knocking the servitors jabbing left arm harmlessly to the side before swinging the weapon around in a U-curve, slicing the second arm off at the elbow with sharp screech and a spark. Before the brain dead drone could strike again, he pulled the spear sharply across, severing the servitors head from its torso and readdressing his stance as its headless form tipped forwards and fell to the floor, the messy neck stump leaking vital fluids in a widening pool of reds and whites.
Vibbon pressed on charging for the two twin scythed servitors that were next in line. As he came upon them, he slowed, moving forwards cautiously, watching their movement closely, and waiting for the exact moment that his opponent was most vulnerable. The moment came as the servitor to his right suddenly propelled itself forwards, scythe arms seeking flesh, in a flurry of sparks and clangs Vibbon expertly parried each death sweep the man-machine delivered, before ducking low under a right armed sweep, he bolted under the arm and around the side of the machine, pausing only for a moment whilst flicking the haft of his spear up behind himself, smashing the servitor in the face and jolting its head back with spine cracking force.
He pushed on offensively spinning and sweeping his spear in a flurry of clanging and sparking strikes against his second foe, not slowing any as the first now slumped forwards with its neck broken and face a grizzly mess of pallid pink flesh.
Within the servitor foe's mechanical arms, joint connecting servos whirred furiously and muscle like ectro-fiber coils strained in protest. Unable to keep up with the speed and strength of the initiate's blows, the servitor soon lost its left scythe to the spear's edge in a hail of sparks, the unabating heavy assault quickly claimed its right arm also. Unarmed, the servitor's head lowered in defeat as it reversed into an alcove in corridor wall and shut itself down.
Vibbon moved on, glistening with perspiration as the higher combat level made him work harder in his exertions than before. His next opponent was to be a four armed combat servitor holding a foot and a half long blade in each hand. Rather than move in to engage this enemy the initiate reversed his grip on his spear, raising it up level with his head, right arm stretched back, he thrust his arm forwards throwing the large spear like a javelin.
Anticipating Vibbon's intent the servitor crossed its two lower blades to block the incoming projectile, but with inhuman force backing its flight, the spear cleaved straight through the two swords severing them in half, striking home and sinking deep into the servitor's torso, effortlessly tearing through its thick armor plating with a loud screech and imbedding itself in its chest. Vibbon tutted as he found, in annoyance, that the servitor still functioned and merely dropped its two useless weapons to the deck with a clinking rattle, then, using its free arms, it tried to carefully remove the deathly sharp bladed weapon from its torso, precisely following the exact path that it had entered only marginally missing several vital organs. Wasting no time Vibbon jolted forwards, grabbing the haft of the spear before it was fully removed and violently thrusting it forward right back through his foe and out the other side, before twisting it for good measure and pulling it free with a wet sounding shlunk. The man-machine slumped forwards, milky white and red vital fluids leaking onto the ground in a growing pink pool.
Vibbon casually pushed the heavy semi-organic contraption to the ground with a loud clank and clatter as he moved past it sizing up his next two enemies. He began to run forward, huge strides quickly closing his distance on the heavier model combat servitors in order to strike them down before their semi-artificial brains could calculate and execute a plan of attack. Their vat-grown muscles tensed as they hefted their large double-headed axes up in anticipation for his attack, then in a move of purely unconscious reaction, the initiate halted his charge diving into a backwards roll back the way he came. As if struck by a vengeful god, the two hulking servitors were jerked suddenly to one side, dying surprisingly quietly but for the odd spark and electrical twitch.
Initially Vibbon was confused but hours of training kicked in and he quickly began breaking the events down in his conditioned mind. As he was about to attack the lobotomized drones, he caught a glimmer of a projectile to his left, it was a spear traveling at speed even his enhanced astartes eyesight struggled to keep up with. As the initiate dived to avoid the imminent danger, the spear pierced smoothly through the clear plascrete wall of the narrow training corridor passing through on into the head of the left combat servitor and then the torso of the right one, sticking them fast to the lower wall on the opposite side. Contemplation over in the blink of an eye, Vibbon's eyes widened in realization and his head jolted to the left. He was not alone. "Whose there!?" he shouted frantically, looking for an explanation… and finding one.
Shutting down the training program, Vibbon exited the corridor moving to stand at the bottom of the steps that led in and out of the area. He instantly bowed in the presence of this new comer. "Brother Bramar, I-I did not expect your presence my lord" Vibbon said whilst calming his twin beating hearts, soothing his body out of its battle-ready state with a rhythmic-cardio mantra, one of many mantra that were drilled into him from the day of his induction into the chapter.
"Rise Initiate, I would not have the Pathfinder of my 4th Rite of the Hunt, and first trial as Hunt-father bow to me so. The Pathfinder is an important member of any squad, even if he is freshly selected. Remember that." Said a grinning Bramar with a comforting nod.
Though his words may have baffled members of other astartes chapters, the Initiate knew the terms well. Within the Basalisks chapter an astartes goes through several rites signaling crucial transitions in his life as a Space Marine. There are 6 main rites; the 1st is known as the Rite of the Warrior and is essentially acceptance into the Basalisks Adeptus Astartes Chapter, this rite applies to all taken into the Chapters fold whether it be human serfs or aspirants chosen as worthy of undergoing the astartes conversion process.
The 2nd rite, the Rite of the Pathfinder, is that of a Neophyte achieving the qualification to become a Scout for the Chapter, these individuals are then on known as Initiates or Pathfinders whilst in the field. Vibbon had just passed this rite himself.
The 3rd rite consists of earning the final organ, the black-carapace, becoming a fully-fledged Battle-Brother and truly earning the title of Adeptus Astartes or Space Marine. This is known as the Rite of War and from here on, a battle-brother can be called upon to act as Champion of the Guard, an honor in which a marine is chosen to lead one or several Kyranus Imperial guard battalions into battle for a period of time.
The 4th is that of a Marine's first selection as "Father of the Hunt" the equivalent of a Sergeant in other chapters, this is known as the Rite of Men, which stems from an old cult belief that each man has a right to fatherhood.
The 5th Known as the Rite of the Claw is a brother's promotion to the position of Company Captain a truly noteworthy position within any astartes chapter and indeed within the Imperium as a whole.
Finally comes the Rite of the True Son, this is the high honor of becoming the Chapter Master and being seen as a true son of Vulkan and through him the Emperor.
There are other rites and paths within the Chapter. Chaplains, Librarians and Tech-marines all have a place in the chapter organization and each follow their own branch of rites and promotions. There are also the smaller rites of becoming a banner-barer, a veteran-Sergent, gaining Terminator honors and many more. Every Space Marine Chapter has its own beliefs and traditions the Basalisks being no different.
"So you will be Sergeant on this mission, it is an honor to serve as scout to you on such an occasion." The young man said, raising and walking to meet his squad leader. As the initiate reached the sergeant, he had to look up to meet the man's eyes. Vibbon was no small man, standing at over two meters tall he would be considered a giant among men, as all Astartes are, but the sergeant stood taller still in his polished battle-ready suit of mk7 Astartes battle armor.
The initiate's eyes traced over the sergeant's armor feeling familiarity in the half green and half boltgun-grey color pattern adopted by the Basalisks Astartes Chapter. His eyes took purchase on the Sergeant's left shoulder, scrutinizing the Basalisk symbol of the black drake's head, homage to their parent chapter as he understood it, the only difference between the two similar symbols being the swirling emerald eye of the Basalisk.
Vibbon had heard that it was a common practice for a Basalisks marine to acquire a green gem from their beloved Primarch's, and the Salamanders' homeworld of Nocturne, affixing said gem to their armor in place of the Basalisks eye. A practice that Bramar had evidently yet to follow.
Vibbon felt a warmth of pride pass through him as he realized that he would soon be wearing that same Basalisks symbol upon his own shoulder. Its true he had worn it before, even now it was printed in the center of his grey suit, but he will wear it into battle for the first time come the start of this mission, and his green eyes glistened with excitement.
His gaze found its way back to the sergeant's face. The man's head was hairless, skin as dark as night, betraying his place of origin as that of Kyranus I, a stark contrast to that of Vibbon's relatively pale complexion, and the trademark red hair of the people of Kyranus III, which the younger man had had cut into runic shapes and flames. The men were leagues apart in appearance but for their immense size and their glowing green eyes, the legacy of their chapter, and a harmless gift of mutation from their parent chapter the Salamanders, whose own eyes were known to glow a bale-fire red.
"Aye the honor does indeed fall Scout, but on to me." Bramar said, looking down at the young man. "The details of this mission have been revealed, I am assembling the squad, briefing will begin enroute onboard the Vigilant flame. Gather your equipment Pathfinder, the hunt awaits." At that, the men exchanged a mutual nod and left the room.
Fully equipped and battle-ready in his Carapace Armor Vibbon re-joined the Sergeant at one of the many docking bays the Hunt-father's Spear possessed. This room was immense housing just a fraction of the Fighters and Tunderhawks that the chapter possessed. The large bay was bustling with activity as the slave servitors modified for multiple engineering and carrying purposes helped the chapter menials carry out tasks, such as the repairs of damaged fighters or the refueling and rearming of the Thunderhawks.
Vibbon looked across the bay stopping a second to see other squads filing into their individual Green & Grey painted Thunderhawks before walking himself up the ramp into the hold of the massive troop transport Vigilant flame. Once the Astartes were boarded and secure in their grav-harnesses, the Thunderhawk's thrusters engaged maneuvering the men in their ship out of the fighter bay and into the void of space heading for the huge yellow-green orb of a planet that the Hunt-father's Spear orbited.
Once the ship was steady, the Sergeant Bramar released himself from his grav-harness, planting himself steadily between the rows of harnessed Astartes. With the wave of a hand a servitor secured to a railing on the troop hold's ceiling moved into the center of the twin rows of marines, lowering the holoscreen that was permanently linked to its two arms at either end. A light appeared below the screen showing a scale model slowly rotating 3D image of a cityscape, it spread across the floor of the carrier bay in a dull green glow that was stark against the darkness that otherwise enveloped the room.
"Now, each of us has been heavily briefed of the enemy and the battle that's being waged on the planet below, so I'll skip the small stuff." Said the Sergeant. "We assault the enemy main stronghold, located here in planet Urmar's capital city Hannara. The enemy is dug-in and has been proven to show formidable resistance to Imperial assault."
The 3D image of the cityscape glowed with blues and reds indicating the positions and territory of the enemy and ally forces and faintly audible clicks and whirs could be heard as the astartes occulobe enhanced eyes in tandem with interactive helmet lenses zoomed and clicked taking pictures of the model storing them in their subconscious for later reference.
"Why not just raise the place to the ground from orbit and be done with it?" asked a helmetless brother Karvin, his dark features were all but invisible in the gloom but his glowing green eyes glistened as they moved from the 3D image to meet the brother-Sergeant's own.
"Good question Brother. The strategizing minds of the crusade have deemed this an ideal moment to deal a lasting blow to the enemy. One that many believe will cripple them in such a way as to hasten their purging from these worlds by a considerable amount of time. It is believed that Urmar was a vital part of the enemy's information network, and that a cache of Intel on the enemy's structure, numbers and plans remains in the city. It seems that the enemy believe that they can hold out until help arrives and they are liberated by their equally damned brethren. This is why they fight so hard. It seems the information is so valuable that they would not needlessly abandon or destroy it if such a move could be averted." The Sergeant explained.
"And so we are to what? Extract this information? Or destroy it?" asked brother Viddar in the monotone voice of his helmets vox speakers.
"Both, Brother, we are to infiltrate the stronghold, locate a suitable information checkpoint and extract the information we desire while planting an aggressive viral code within the mainframe, before preforming a demolitions action on said and other checkpoints to disguise our true intentions. As I understand it the Virus will embed its self in the enemy's main data units and send us up-to-date information on the enemy movements periodically. We are one side of a four pronged attack, each with the same objective." Bramar continued.
"I see, we are to be escorts." Said brother Gansis with a disapproving hiss, his eyes leaving the floor not for the first time, to look upon the stranger whom had seemingly infiltrated their squad.
"This is a co-operative action Gansis! The technology of the enemy information network has been studied foremost by the Iron Grinders, and the viral weapon we will use to lay it bare is also theirs. Brother-Sergeant Mannarsh as well as 3 other astartes of the Iron Grinders Chapter has been seconded to the Basalisks for this action." Said Bramar clearly annoyed by the Marine's comment.
"My apologies Hunt-father, I meant no slight." Gansis said to Bramar by way of apology. "Welcome brother, May the eternal-father watch over you this day." Gansis nodded to the Iron Grinders Marine.
"The Omnissiah protects all made by his hand brother Gansis, it is an honor to work with you this day." Replied Mannarsh with an oddly mechanic turn of the head and nod.
The marine was battle-ready, his helm augmented with a large protruding mechanical right eye its red glow dimming and brightening in pulses. He wore heavily modified power armor, split vertically baring the colors of his chapter, the left a polished void black and the right a dull Mechanicus red, all complemented with the same silver trim that the Basalisks themselves chapter symbol, a clenched mechanical fist surrounded by a cog wheel, was stark white on the black of his left shoulder pad. Gansis could not fully tell what generation the armor was from, recognizing parts as Mk7 pattern, but the greaves and chest-plate with its armored collar, looked to be of the new and rare Mk8 pattern, though each and every section had been noticeably modified in some way or other.
It was his Chapter's way, their tradition as Gansis understood it, to seek out and constantly improve themselves and equipment. Even now the Marine was fiddling with his prosthetic right arm, its metal was also painted a Mechanicus red and it possessed a data slate and auspex on opposite sides of the forearm. Each of the hand's knuckles bore miniscule versions of the Mechaicus' cog & skull emblem, Gansis recognized it as a slim lined version of the crackling Power-fist, the intricacy of the weapon familiar to him as it was his weapon of choice during missions as hunt-father, even now his fist was polished and ready, kept in storage here onboard the Vigilant flame in its armory. Listening in on the briefing from the thunderhawks cockpit doorway, the Iron Grinders marine, satisfied with the results of his fiddling, soon moved off to oversee the flying the ship himself.
"And what of extraction? How are we to proceed after the task is complete?" Questioned brother Vanix, his deep grounding voice resonating throughout the gunship effortlessly.
"We are to fight our way out brother." Replied Bramar with a grin "From schematics of the city and current knowledge of the enemy formation, there have been several easily exploitable weak points in the enemy defenses." Bramar's gauntleted finger pointed to the points referenced each of which glowed orange in an intermittent pattern. "Terrain at these points is difficult to overcome from the Imperial held side and so the enemy has fewer troops stationed there, but their structural integrity is easily compromised from the inside. So, acting as demolishers once again, we are to blow open these weak spots and hold the breach until ally forces can penetrate. At this point the final push will be in full swing, so we will regroup and aid our forces in eradicating these scums from this city and planet." Bramar said vehemently with a clench of his fist.
"Best case scenario, the enemy will be blind to our actions regarding their intelligence files and not notice until the Iron Grinders' Virus can take full effect. Worst case, the virus is found and extracted, but the time needed for the enemy to re-think their structure and the confusion caused by, and prior to, the implementation of their new formation will give us ample opportunity to deal blow after blow to the enemy." Bramar stood from the hologram finished with his speech.
"And what the Thunderhawk brother? Are we to discard our ships so needlessly? Sacrifice them to the enemy ordinance? Surely this insertion would go more smoothly via drop pod." Complained brother Makkin, ever eager to engage the enemy forces in the flashiest way possible.
As Bramar turned to give voice to his brothers concerns a sudden lurch and wall of pressure sent the Sergeant flying back, one ton of adeptas astartes power was propelled across the gunship's holding bay like a tossed child's toy, coming to an abrupt stop as it connected with the closed ramp at the rear of the ship, the echoing clang of reinforced metal striking reinforced metal resonating throughout the gunship. Bramar connected high and came to a steady landing on one foot and knee, the Sergeant rose quickly with a rage filled face. "Brother Mannarsh, report! What in Vulcan's name was that!?" He snarled marching towards the flight deck.
"My apologies brother Basaliak. It seems we were stricken by an unknown energy source." Said the Iron Grinder, fighting with the ships controls to keep it steady. "Brace yourself Sergeant. I believe that was just the beginning".
As if on cue, the pressurized ship began to shudder and creak as if straining against some assaulting force akin to being crushed in a vice. The Sergeant collapsed midstride, his suit's systems had shut down and the troop hold's gravity seemed to increase a thousand fold. He landed heavily, the dead weight of is heavy armor only adding to the strength of force assailing him, he grunted in exertion, his prone form straining against the gravitational pressure that only seemed to affect him. Looking around he could see that each marine in the compartment was being affected in some way, by something."Warp madness!" Bramar heard Gansis say, though his voice was small, strained and distorted as if he was speaking from a distance.
Bramar looked around veins bulged across his scalp as he struggled to move his head, he could feel the wrongness that was taking place in his very being, smell it in the air. The walls were bulging, stretching and contorting simultaneously. Then the lights began to flash in the troop bay, normal red and green at first, but the colors became more diverse and indescribable, seemingly taking physical form in front of his eyes, he closed them, but the colors remained and were soon followed by the voices.
Laughter intermingled with shouts of rage, ecstasy and torment in one stomach twisting symphony, then the screaming came, a keening screeching sound emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once, it sang at so high a pitch that even with his astartes hearing Bramar had never before experienced such a sound. It grew louder the volume rising immeasurably, Bramar struggled to his knees clenching his head in his massive gauntleted hands as if his hold was the only thing preventing his skull from splitting apart.
He saw as Brother Kir'dan removed his helmet in a gush of blood, tossing it to the floor to brace his own head in the same manner as Bramar had, the Marine's eyes were bleeding, as well as his nose and ears. Bramar's attention was shifted to Brother Mu'tan as he deactivated his grav-harness and fell to the floor coughing blood through the vox grill of his helmet. Bramar tried to help his brother, managing to rise slightly on one foot before being jarred and twisted slamming on his back into the ground just short of where Mu'tan lay.
He found himself at the feet of the Pathfinder, and looked up to see Vibbon staring blankly at the ceiling his mouth lolling open like the slack jaw of some rotting corpse. For no apparent reason Bramar followed his stare, his eyes coming to rest on the ceiling directly above him. He saw as the metal seemed to ripple like the waves emanating from a stone dropped in a calm lake, at its epicenter he saw his face, reflected perfectly and impossibly in the dull black-gray non-reflective metal of the troop hold.
He watched as his features began to age and degrade becoming nothing but a rotting corpse its gleaming Basilalisk power amour degrading, cracking and flaking, falling off in parts. It's face was oddly mirroring Vibbbon's facial expression, though what struck him was how the green glow of the eyes never faded, remaining even after the eyes had dried and crumbled themselves away. The space around the corpse became a black starless void and the monstrosity stared at Bramar balefully, reaching out with a rotten hand that it seemed was unable to pierce the rippling liquid-metal surface of the troop hold.
The wretched thing scratched and clawed at its watery veil like an unborn child as it rubs and kicks at its mother's stomach. Bramar found himself reaching back, though he knew the move was unwilling and unconscious. As he neared the phantasm it began to whisper. Even blanketed behind the grim symphony of the other voices, he recognized this one as his own. He neared still, and the voice became louder.
De...th...th Gar. He found that the weight on his body had increased, but he knew that he must hear this message, he could see its importance reflected in the light it the Corpse-Creatures eyes. He began to raise, veins bulging and muscles straining against the unseen unknown pressures. The reflection spoke again. Dea...to th...ath Gar. Bramar pushed his body as best he could, rising to his feet and reaching his hand up once again, the mirrored image neared to within a foot and the creature screamed. Death to the Death Guard! Suddenly the thing lunged down at Bramar.
Milliseconds before a rotten hand was about to take hold, the Sergeant was shunted aside, once again crashing to the floor. As the blackness crept in he could see the creature, it's hand covered in bright red blood, thrashing about in vein against its invisible veil as it sank back into the ceiling of the troop carrier.
Bramar screamed, eyes wide reaching up to the false ceiling from the floor in panic and desperation, like a man trying to save a dying loved one from a terrible fate. It drown in the metal, trashing and squirming, and then vanished along with the voices, colors and pain. All had stopped, and in sudden silence, Bramar slipped into darkness.