A/N: WARNING: WARHAMMER 40K AU DETECTED. HOLD ON TO YOUR BUTTS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.
It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
On the fringes of the Eye of Terror, an ancient vessel has been recovered from the Warp. It bears the mark of the mighty Camlann, favored cruiser of a lost relic: a legendary Astartes who's infamous tale resonates across the galaxy even millennia after the Horus Heresy. Now the fabled hero returns, but the Ruinous Powers are ever changing, and the roots of heresy grow ever deeper and stronger in the hearts of men. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the codes of honor and justice, for in the grim dark future…
"There is only war."
"You say something, Johann?"
The bespectacled Guardsmen did not bother to look up from his console, for his answer was most effectively conveyed through silence. Halvdan Brauhn had no appreciation for his station, one of the most critical jobs on the station. All he did was slack off and chat up that wench from Maintenance, whose zipper was obviously eight millimeters too low for regulations. If one was hyped up enough Commissariat rhetoric, one might mistake her for a Slaaneshi heretic.
For a moment, Johann paused. He'll have to put a pin in that one.
For the Emperor, of course.
Storing this thought for later, Johann returned to his work. Of course, there was no work to do aboard Orbital Defence Station Argus. No Chaos Fleet to engage, no Tyranid invaders to advance in the opposite direction from, not even an Eldar Craftworld to purge. Throne of Terra, Johann could at least ask for something to stimulate him.
"Yo, Johann, you listening?"
Even a Black Crusade is better than him.
"Yes, Hal, I heard you."
There was the ruffling of foil accompanied by loud crunching.
"And?" Hal questioned between swallows.
Johann swiveled his chair about, the unamused expression on his face causing Halvdan to wince slightly. The bulky Guardsman had a youthful complexion, soft but with a hint of steel, like one of Holy Terra's ancient sculptures. He was a fit Guardsmen, black of hair and rippling with the muscles that wench from Maintenance found so awe-inspiring. However, in the confines of his chair, and in broader terms, Orbital Defence Station Argus, he had grown sloth and messy. Hal's machinations of glory on the battlefield had no place in the role of a glorified housesitter
Hal was lounging in his chair, his booted feet smashed atop the various analog screens and keyboards. In his right hand was a ripped bag of rations, and in his left sat the rations in question, the chocolate cookies being devoured voraciously by the Guardsman. For a moment no one spoke, the only sound being the air circulation and Hal's furious chewing.
Finally, realization came to Johann. "Hal, are those…"
Halvdan paused his spirited assault on the rations and nodded. "You left them in your locker, and since you looked like you weren't going to eat 'em, I borrowed them."
If rapid motion could be harnessed as a fuel source, Johan's twitching eye could power the Golden Throne for months.
"You...borrowed them?"
"Yes."
"From my locker?"
"Affirmative."
"The one I put three locks on and a facial recognition scanner?"
Hal paused idly and mulled over this thought. "...Yes."
Silence permeated the control deck. Several Imperial Navy vessels passed by the viewports on their route to the iridescent blue orb in the distance, Cadia. Slowly, Hal reached into the bag and withdrew a cookie, broken apart by the Guard's furious attack. He held it out to Johann expectantly, his face still covered in a half hungering, half apologetic mask.
"Want one?"
Silence again, this time broken by Johann's weary sigh. "Some days I just loathe you, Hal."
"And what about other days?"
"Other days I want to kill you."
Hal blinked, but instead of replying, he resigned to shrug and bite into the cookie. Johann shook his head and returned to his console, only to mutter a prayer to the Emperor. No new contacts had appeared, no messages from command, nothing. Signal detail over Cadia was turning out to be nowhere near as exciting as it he had imagined.
Of course, that meant more of Hal. Perhaps if Johann was lucky, the lady from maintenance would stop by and keep what little remained of his attention span on her chest than on Johann's suffering. Inwardly, Johann shamed himself for such a statement, and his treatment of Hal as a whole. 'A fine mind is a blessing of the Emperor - It should not be cluttered with trivialities', as Corporal Noctus would say.
"Umm...Johann?"
Except Corporal Noctus wasn't doing Signal detail today.
"Johann…?"
Johann buried his face in his hands. Was it too much to have but a moment of silence? A moment to cleanse from his mind Hal's idiotic speech over the colors of women's undergarments? Even a brief moment of quiet to clear those moronic cat picts from his memory was enough!
"J-johann…"
That was it. The last straw.
"Throne of Terra, Hal! I already said you could have the cookie, so could you~"
But Johann noticed that Hal was addressing him. The Guardsman was staring out the viewport, the bag of sweets having fallen to the floor when Halvdan dropped them. The man was slack-jawed and frozen, as if Abaddon the Despoiler himself had appeared before him and subsequently encased the poor soul in stone. He had stopped all but his breathing.
When Johann followed his gaze, he could see why.
The two Guardsmen were so stunned, they completely ignored Sergeant Cassis as he barged in, his footfalls hard and echoing, his voice a malevolent choir worthy of a Commissar.
"What did you frak up this time, maggots?! Every frakking sensor on this station is…"
The Sergeant was soon to follow in his two subordinates' footsteps.
"Emperor guide me, that is a big one."
Now, Hal did not fancy himself a genius. 'Tactical prodigy and strategic mastery is best left to the higher-ups', Sergeant Cassis would say, and Halvdan could not help but agree with him. Your average Guardsman could never live up the great deeds of the venerable Commissars, or hope to wage war against the xenos foe like the resilient Chapter Masters of the Adeptus Astartes could. However, there must come a time where even the lowliest of soldier must make up his own plans.
And Hal could assure himself that his was a brilliant plan.
"You're going to get us both killed!"
Hal looked down at his comrade, eyebrow arched. Johann drummed his fingers nervously against the newly...borrowed Hotshot Lasgun and periodically readjusted his glasses with quaking hands. Honestly, Halvdan could not see fault the fault in his scheme. Every miniscule detail had been accounted for. Johannes must surely be able to see the genius behind his plan, and chooses only to ignore it out of fear.
"Please, Johann! You're going to blow our cover!" Hal whispered to his shaking friend. Johann was only further irritated by this, and returned to his habits. Hal left his friend to his business, and instead he pursued what might cause a hitch in his plan.
After a short but well-deserved chasting from the sergeant, Halvdan went about formulating his plot. The uniforms were genuine, as were the weapons and orders. Luckily, they lacked proper identification and thus let Hal adlib the remainder of the operation. While the Guardsman did not question the abilities of his superiors, the flawless aspects of his plan could fool the High Lords of Terra themselves.
"Relax," Hal reassured his companion. "You've got no reason to be a sissy, Johann. Our cover is perfect."
"And the Stormtroopers?"
Hal mused over this thought for a moment. "I'm sure they won't mind us borrowing their things for a while. Once the mission's done and we're relieved, we'll just give the stuff back."
"I don't think the tall one will ever walk normally again," Johann seethed.
Hal was silenced by this. His force of arms may have been a bit excessive, but these were Stormtroopers. Hardened warriors of the Imperial Guard, trained to kill heretics and xenos alike with their bare hands. They were trained from birth to be the closest counterpart of a Space Marine that the Astra Militarum could produce. Their minds could only give and take orders, and their brawny forms were so great in power that even their muscles had muscles.
Hal was at no degree jealous of this...not even a little.
…
Okay, maybe a tiny bit jealous. Just a tiny bit.
Hal made sure to wipe away the tear from his eye.
Service Lift #43 of Orbital Defence Station Argus ground to a halt. The massive bulkhead door before them opened to reveal Hangar Bay #12, a bustling hive of activity as fighter compliments from both the station and Battlefleet Cadia were armed and fueled. The thirty or so Guard troopers, tech-priests and maintenance personnel on the lift flooded out into the chaos with their tools of trade, be it lasgun, mechadendrite, or wrench. Fortunately, the passengers had given the two 'Stormtroopers' a wide berth and left Hal and Johann to argue in peace.
The Stormtrooper uniform looked a tad too big for Johannes' frame, the black armor plates and maroon fatigues sagging in areas. The helmet sat awkwardly on Johann's head, who's thin and brittle features were shadowed by the helm. By virtue (or lack thereof) of heredity, Johannes Cheval possessed the meek frame of his grandfather, but where his grandfather was a daring man, Johann was a slave to regulation.
Sergeant Cassis would berate Hal for such a declaration, but he would be quelled if he viewed example A:
"When Sergeant Cassis finds out, or, Emperor help us, Commissar Briansky, we're going to be executed on the spot!"
Internally, Hal groaned. Externally, he grabbed the smaller Guard by the collar and propelled him forward. "They'll never find out. The Stormtroopers never saw us, the mission is short, and Commissar Briansky isn't even onboard the station."
"And when the Commissar does return?"
Hal grinned. "'A suspicious mind is a healthy mind.'"
Johann fumed, but continued walking until both he and Hal had exited the lift and were deep within the bustling confusion of Hangar Bay #12. "And the transfer orders?"
Hal fumbled through his pocket and produced a wrinkled parchment covered in the frivolous grandness of High Gothic text. Hal looked over the piece before returning it to its hiding place and shrugging.
"I can't read High Gothic," Hal stated. "But trust me on this one, Johann. I'm a genius."
Johann rolled his eyes behind his spectacles. "Yes, of course! Everyone, look and behold! It's frakking Creed reborn!"
Hal frowned and elbowed his companion in the side.
The two continued for some time through the organized chaos of the hangar. In the distance lay the unmistakable hulk of a Thunderhawk, painted in the forest green of the revered Dark Angels Chapter. As the two neared closer, the lethal screen of Heavy Bolters and massive dorsal Battle Cannon became visible, along with the numerous victory marks along the hull.
But Hal was not focused on the ship itself, but instead on what lay before the craft.
The hulking forms of several veteran Astartes dominated the scene. They were resplendent in their bleached Terminator armor, covered in honor marks and purity seals. In their hands were a variety of weapons ranging from Storm Bolters to, in one Marine's case, a Heavy Flamer. Hal felt his heart skip a beat as he stared upon the young demigods with wide eyes and a faltering pace. Johannes had a similar thought, and almost tripped over a mechanic's toolbox.
Next to the Terminators was a slightly smaller detachment. The warriors of the Adepta Sororitas gleamed in their polished black armor and crimson robes, most having hidden their faces beneath their white-on-black helms. The only unhelmeted Sister was whom Hal guessed was the leader, with slightly more decorative armor. Her hair was the same bleached white as her order, but grown down to the small of her back and tied into a simple ponytail behind her neck. Her eyes were striking: vibrant red orbs framed by soft, feminine features and laced with a sort of experience only a Sister of Battle could hold.
And then there was the centerpiece of this awing painting. The Lord Inquisitor was a dark figure, covered in shining black plate and a dark grey coat. He was as tall as Hal in his attire, yet with the thin structure of Johann, punctuated by an almost sickly looking face covered in stubble and laced with fatigue . He shared no similarities when it came to hair, the Inquisitor's being a surprisingly organized bulge of spiky black hair. He looked a fidgety sort of man, tapping the odd-looking firearm at his waist periodically and glancing about the hangar bay in expectation.
"Report."
Hal was snapped from his trance to find himself before the Inquisitor. Horrified, Hal snapped into a crisp salute and a rigid bow. Johann, similarly surprised, did the same. The Inquisitor arched an eyebrow, but decided to overlook this. Hal withdrew from his pocket the transfer orders and handed them to the man.
"Names?" asked the Inquisitor, eyes having not darted from the parchment.
"Bernhardt Klemperer, My Lord," Hal declared.
With a curious glance towards his comrade, Johann followed suit. "Erik Barishnikov, My lord."
The Inquisitor finished reading the transfer orders with the ghost of a frown on his face, then looked up to address the two Stormtroopers. "Very well. Have you been briefed on the situation?"
"No sir."
The Inquisitor nodded and turned about. A brief gesture was cast to the unhelmeted Sister of Battle, who replied by bringing up a pict projection of the object of Hal and Johann's attention hours prior. It was brutish thing, a large eyesore combined with the grainy feed of the pict. The wrecks of starships of various makes, models, and races littered its exterior. The Inquisitor huffed at the sight of the graveyard and turned to the Sororitas.
"Sister Superior?"
The Sister nodded. "This is the Space Hulk Reaper of Stars," she began, gesturing to the grainy image. "It has a mass of thirty-four point eight trillion tonnes, an albedo point of eight-seven, gravitic displacement…"
Hal droned out the rest of the woman's speech. She continued to describe the attributes of the Space Hulk in her melodic voice, soothing to the ears yet betraying a sliver of disgust towards the agglomeration. In honesty, Halvdan was more concerned with her face, truly a beauty of the Imperium. She was a pale thing, but a pretty sort of pale, cloaking her features with smooth skin save for a dainty little scar beside her left eye. Had the Sister Superior not said something of interest, Hal would have kept staring for hours.
"Estimates of the composition place around two-hundred and fifty-seven vessels. Of which, only fifty have a habitable atmosphere."
This was when the Inquisitor intruded. "And of that number, only one is sending out a distress signal."
Hal had to pause at this. A distress signal from a Space Hulk? The Guard was no expert on these celestial bodies, but these congregations of ancient vessels were thousands of years old. Even if the hulk was fairly new, it couldn't have been formed any less than five millennia ago. To still produce power sufficient enough to send out a signal was unheard. Even more confusing, to be able to send out a signal without constant maintenance for so long. The pict in the Sister's hand flickered and changed to the view of a vessel.
It was at this point that one of the Astartes goliaths had joined the group, winged helmet tucked in its arm to give Hal a decent view of its face. Had it not been for the respirator, his surprise would be out for all to see.
The woman was a sickly form of pale, nowhere near the beauty of the Sister Superior. Her hazelnut hair was trimmed short and converged in a bun, though unkept and straying at the forehead. While the Adepta's face was cursed with but a single scar, the Terminator's visage was completely screened in marks of battle, the wounds criss-crossing here and there like a morbid board of chess. Her left eyes was an emerald green that had lost its luster with the passage of time, while the woman's right eye was a mechanical prosthetic, a red orb left unblinking.
"It is originating from Strike Cruiser, as fitting of the title 'archeotech' as it could get. The Machine-Spirit operating the signal has long since devolved into ramblings. Techmarine Avaritas is currently working to decode the message, but it will take time."
"Have you picked up any life signs aboard the vessel, Veteran-Sergeant Dionysia?" the Lord Inquisitor started.
The Terminator shook her head. "No, My Lord. The inner sanctum of the vessel is heavily armored, and Brother Pontero's scans cannot penetrate the hull."
"And that is why we shall be mounting an assault."
The vox-filtered voice approached from the Thunderhawk, accompanied by the clunking footfalls of Terminator armor. Veteran-Sergeant Dionysia gave a silent sigh and muttered something beneath her breath before twisting her torso to meet the newcomer.
"Brother Pontero," she began carefully. "I do not think your expertise is necessary on this venture. Brother Zakerias will be more than honored to carry out the mission."
There was the flapping of parchment in motion as the new Terminator turned to address his Sergeant. "Zakerias is a new-blood. We need our best for this mission."
Before Hal was a hulking figure, similarly decked in Deathwing Terminator plate like his brethren. He was fully kitted out, Storm Bolter in his right hand and a Chainfist taking up the other. The powered gauntlet was massive, easily dwarfing both Halvdan and Johannes, and its reputation was only reinforced by the shining chain weapon mounted beneath. Both a breaching tool and a lethal weapon.
But that was not the most interesting sight. All across the armored figure were placed the wax seals of the Reclusiam, holding in place the flittering strips of parchment that were known as purity seals. The Guardsman had never seen so many in his life, despite the regular visits of Astartes Reclusiarchs and Marines from the various Chapters of the Astartes Praeses. They congregated on the helmet, chest and Boltgun like a swarm of large red flies threatening to consume him whole if not for the various tomes of prayer at his waist.
If Dionysia was annoyed, she hid it well. The Veteran-Sergeant merely paused for thought and nodded. To deny this pious Battle-Brother of battle would be a dangerous notion.
"Then everything is in order," the Inquisitor announced. "We leave now."
The Sister Superior was taken aback by this and turned to halt the Inquisitor. "Lord Tohsaka and the Mechanicus representatives have yet to arrive, my lord."
The agent grunted, but Hal could see the slimmer of a grin on his face. "Time is a commodity we do not have. They can pick apart the wreck we shall leave them."
The Terminator Sergeant nodded with a grim smile and adorned her helm. "A moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy."
At these words, Halvdan felt his stomach flip. Perhaps brilliance came in different forms.
A/N: In the grim darkness of the far future, people die when they are killed.
All criticism and commentary is appreciated, ladies and germs.