The steel mountain of Hive Armageddon stretches kilometers into the ashen skies, fires raging out of control across its surface. The polluted wastes stretching around its base are littered with the debris of centuries of war, rusting hulks of tanks, armored carriers, and crashed aircraft, slowly decaying into the sands they lie in. Amid the wreckage, movement stirs. A man pulls himself towards one of the wrecks, each movement labored, but inexorably he works his way to its base. Then grabbing onto a track with unnatural strength, he hauls himself on top, beside the turret. He lies there for a minute, then props himself up against the side away from the hive. His head tilts from side to side as he surveys the land, before finally he drops back down to the ground, and begins to stride into the wastes, the tattered, stained remains of some unrecognizable uniform pulled around his face.
An unblinking pair of lenses follows the man's stride with interest. A bulky, black-armored figure slips back into the shadow of a crumbling retaining wall, his decision made. Encrypted vox messages are sent far to the west, towards the buried remains of an ancient vessel, a relic of the past wars for this planet. The warrior pulls his white cape closer around him and begins a long trudge of his own, towards some unknown objective.
* * *
The two men circle around the ring, each intently focused on the other. One looks nervous, scavenged armor festooned with chains and spikes hanging awkwardly off his wiry body, the other maintaining a blank expression, his clawed hands dangling easily on the sides of his stained rags. Shouts of laughter echo around the smoky room, as bets and punches are exchanged in equal measure between the huge robed warriors in the audience. The armored contestant suddenly charges forward, angling his spiked shoulder guard towards his foe. The other fighter quickly sidesteps him, and with a vicious grin rakes his clawed fingers across the other man's face. The man stumbles, but regains his footing, and with a bellow of rage swings a fist with speed that would send any normal person to the floor. This time the claws grab him by the throat, and with a quick twist his neck breaks. The victor is led out of the ring as another set of contestants enter, then down a set of stairs into a large, surprisingly clean white-walled chamber, shelves of neatly organized blades, needles, and tweezers arranged around a single slab in the center. The sole occupant of the room, a towering man in ornate armor, looks up at him without interest, gesturing towards a set of manacles on the slab. For the first time the uniformed man looks uncertain, his scarred face betraying a hint of fear. A snarl from the armored man compels him forward, and as he lies down, the manacles snap shut around first his ankles, then his arms, then finally his neck.
The same room as the fight took place in is now sober and orderly. Ranks of armored soldiers stand at attention behind their officers, as banners bearing the icons of flames, open books, or simply verses of holy script flutter overhead. Atop the stage where the combat ring previously was, five soldiers stand on either side of a door, guns held by their sides and a single scrap of parchment stuck to each of their pauldrons, forming a path through their ranks. At the end, their sergeant faces the door, a small roll of parchment held in one hand, and a hot ladle of wax in the other. At a word, the doors open, and another soldier walks through, his patched, polished armor gleaming. His scarred face twitches into what might be a smile as he approaches the sergeant, then drops to one knee. With an air of ceremony, the sergeant unfurls the parchment, holding it to the soldier's chest, then pours a gobbet of wax at the top. Finally, he punches the still-hot wax with the knuckle of his left hand. As the wax cools into the shape of an eight-pointed star, roars of approval echo through the chamber, breaking the silence that had prevailed throughout the ceremony.
* * *
A vast starship plows through the void, its battle-scarred hull illuminated by the light of a tiny, dying star. The golden statue atop its prow depicts an armored figure, censer held in one hand and an open book in the other. The figurehead stares out towards the ship's destination, a ruddy brown moon, half of it cast in shadow as its new visitors approach.
Four armored soldiers struggle through the sand, the faint sun shining through the howling dust-laden wind glinting off the icon of an open book on each of their pauldrons. One clutches a sword in one hand, and a massive pistol with a glowing barrel in the other. Vents on the side of the gun open, venting jets of hazy heat out. The other soldiers forge ahead, bulky guns clutched in their hands and long toothed swords sheathed on their backs. One of the soldiers has long talons that struggle to fit in the trigger guard of his gun, and he shakes his head as they press onward into the storm.
The first warning the band has is a flash of silver through the air, and a series of grooves that suddenly appear in the sergeant's chest. He fires back, his pistol belching a furious blue beam back into the haze. More fire returns, and flickers of movement dart through the impenetrable dust. A bright lance of energy stabs out, and one of the soldiers falls, his smoking gun dropping to the ground. The others continue to fire back, but now are moving in the direction from which they came. The sergeant reaches up to the side of his helmet, adjusting a small aerial so it points upward. The others swung their guns around towards the shooter who killed one of their own, raking the sand with spreads of shells. Two bodies tumble, the first glimpse yet of the attackers. Their slender figures are sheathed in tight-fitting blue bodygloves, with elaborate, sweeping white helmets. One clutches a sleek, short-barreled carbine, the other had dropped a long, tube-like weapon with a canister mounted atop it. The clawed soldier fires off a burst towards this weapon, blasting it into mangled pieces. At a signal from the sergeant, the soldiers drop to a crouch, staring expectantly at the sheets of sand whistling through the air. Moments later, three more of the slender attackers dance forward, pistols in one hand and sleek chainswords in the other. The remaining three soldiers open fire, shredding two of the attackers apart with well-aimed bursts. The last one skips to one side, then lunges for the sergeant with his chainsword. The sergeant swings his own sword forward, smashing the attacker's blade to one side, then shoots it point-blank with his pistol. The final attacker slumps down in two smoking halves, but it has served its purpose. As the soldiers finally look up from its remains, a massive shadow looms through the concealing sandstorm. Guns bark, and explosions erupt on the bulk that is now powering its way towards them. The clawed soldier swings its helmet slightly towards the sergeant, who nods. With a gesture from him, all except the clawed soldier turn and flee back, towards a pair of descending engine flares.
The clawed soldier clips his gun to his hip, and walks unhurriedly forward. As he does, a towering figure emerges from the mists, reminiscent of an enormous, gangly version of the earlier attackers. Two tall fins jut up from its shoulders, and it grasps a massive sword in its spindly fingers. The soldier twists off his helmet and clips it to his waist, revealing a scarred face, set with grim determination. He laughs, smiling unimaginably wide, and holds up his clawed hands, raising them towards the approaching figure. A glow begins to build around the soldier, first from his head, then extending over his whole body. A humming noise cuts through the howling wind, growing in intensity as the glow builds. The glow becomes a blaze of light, and the hum a shriek, then a blast of multicolored fire roars across the desert, turning the sand into glass and throwing back the concealing storm. Hundreds of the graceful attackers are briefly visible, then vanish in the tide of fire. Above, the passengers of a gunship blazing up into orbit shield their eyes from the glare as the inside of the hold is briefly illuminated as if under a midday sun.
The soldier collapses onto the ground below him, an island of sand in a sea of glass. The sandstorm is already starting again, and tendrils of dust hide the sky from view. The soldier's claws wilt, their jagged edges forming into the fingers of his gauntlet. The unnatural glow fades from around his body, and his breathing slows as his eyes glaze over. Far above, the engines of the Strike Cruiser he arrived on grumble into life, as it swings away from the moon and towards the outer reaches of the system.