Here is a complete story by me. If you like it, or not, be sure to comment!
Now
The Adeptus Astartes problem.
My master put it to me as a problem, cryptically asking me to find a solution.
On the face of it super human warriors, nigh on unstoppable with their trans-human abilities coupled with the very best weapons and armour might sound like a good idea.
They have lent their considerable might to the Imperium's cause a hundred million times over a hundred million battlefields, vanquishing untold amounts of the enemies of our Emperor, in his name.
The continued existence of our Empire, unyielding in the face of everything the galaxy has thrown at it over ten thousand years, is a testament to their worth.
But what of the physical cost?
Let's consider what it takes to bring these supermen into existence. A vast sector of the Adepus Mechanicum dedicated to maintaining geneseed, entire worlds devoted to manufacturing their weapons and armour and ammunition, secret ship yards using ancient technology to build the vessels that carry them into battle, generations of young men lost in barbaric contests to select a few worthy vassals for the sinister genetic gifts.
It costs just over of half a billion thrones to bring one fully trained Battle-Brother to completion.
I could found an entire regiment of guard, complete with armour and air assets for a similar amount.
And for every few chapters the High Lords of Terra sanction for creation, one may turn at any moment and raze entire worlds to the ground, slaughtering billions in the name of some vile power.
I fear that is the true cost of all this, not one of logistics, rather a burden of the soul.
The history of the Space Marine is liberally peppered with tales of treachery and betrayal. Starting with the Thrice cursed Horus, Bastard Primarch of the dread Black Legion, and his unholy war on Terra during the Great crusade.
It cost our God his very life to smite the infidel, his own son I might add, an action that saw the Imperium torn apart in civil war.
Moving forwards, even in my own lifetime there are countless examples.
The knights of Blood, The Relictors, The Astral Claws, The Punishers and the Soul Drinkers to name but a few.
They are heretics all, each man in each chapter turning from the Emperor's light, the very being responsible for their existence, in order to wage war against us.
It would seem that treachery was written into their DNA.
It's hard to find a root of the issue. It could be the ritualised methods of selecting aspirants, choosing only the most blood thirsty and barbaric youths to join their ranks. It could be the methods of implanting the geneseed or the geneseed itself, inherent impurities missed by half trained specialists more concerned with observing cult tradition than maintaining their integrity.
It could be the training, indoctrination, or maybe the fact that each and every one of them is effectively and adolescent fool given power beyond his wildest imagination.
Each Space Marine never matures beyond childhood, caught in time at a moment where most males believe themselves invulnerable and see the world in black and white, in horribly simplistic terms.
Maybe it's this, the knowledge that they are superior to us in every way but get taught that they exist only to serve humanity, the mewling mass of weaklings and cowards they secretly hate.
Or maybe I'm just speculating.
What I do know is that whatever the reasons, a disproportionate amount of the Adeptus Astartes has turned traitor, a truly horrific amount for those championed to us as our immortal saviours.
And there are a thousand of these chapters out there, at least a thousand, each with its own unique cult and belief system, utilising non-regulated training systems and ideas. And we just hand them the power to end worlds and send them on their way, free to act as they please.
Unstoppable, unpredictable, uncontrollable.
A weapon that is as likely to explode in your face as kill the enemy you made it to fight.
One might question if the Imperium's precious resources might not be put to better use elsewhere.
Of course this is all subjective, I cannot deny the potency of the Adeptus Astartes as a weapon, even one with a double edge to its blade.
So I sit here at my desk at the end of a strange day, perplexed. They were presented to me as a problem, these Space Marines, the Angels of Death!
So I have to ask myself if they are the problem,
What is the solution?
-Inquisitor Fellon, Ordo Hereticus
The meme-recording ended, the tinny voice projecting from the Dataslate's tiny speaker ceased.
'That is the end of the file sir.'
Brother-Sergeant Cadellon of the Bellators Crimson said as he placed the damaged slate down on the charred remains of a desk and waited for his Captain's response.
Brother-Captain Solant turned away from the single shattered window in the small office and glanced at the leader of his command squad and oldest friend before looking to the floor where the burnt corpse of the Inquisitor lay.
'Is there nothing else?' He asked, his eyes taking in the devastation wrought by his hallowed troops.
The small safe house had been ludicrously easy to overrun, the Inquisitor being surrounded by a menagerie of ex guard and assorted mercenary dogs. They were put down in a hail of bolt rounds in a matter of seconds, the fire breaking out in the office as a result of the frag grenade Captain Solant launched through the flimsy door as he made entry, pumping bolts into the man's prone form even as the room burned around him.
The explosion had set off a pile of paperwork as it maimed the heretic inquisitor, forcing the Battle brothers to wait as it burned itself out before they could explore.
Sergeant Cadellon had prised the damaged dataslate from the dead Inquisitor's hand and searched for contents, being rewarded with the dead man's personal notes.
'There is, my lord. Personnel files, both of the abhumans and Chapter personalities, training routines, equipment lists, target packs. This looks like workup material for a large scale operation.'
Captain Solant shot him a look.
'Take that with us, we will begin analysis as soon as we're back on the Guilliman's Wrath'
'It's definitely him, sir.'
Apothecary Luxus interrupted as he left his kneeling position and rose to his feet, a small probe retracting into the Reductor unit worn on his forearm.
'The flesh matches the genetic profile we have on our cogitator banks. The chase is over sir.'
Captain Solant nodded in acknowledgement but his features remained in a tight scowl, something he couldn't quite place causing him bother.
'There's one other thing of note.' Sergeant Cadellon continued.
'The meme-recording is dated. Time stamp reads 229.959M41'
The Captain's eyes narrowed.
'Is there any way it could be forged?' The company commander asked.
Cadellon shook his head. 'Official Ordo encryption, grade black sir. We could access the slate only because it was already open.'
'That date is over thirty years old.'
Solant's mind reeled at the newly revealed information. In the 6 months after the cowardly attack, Brother-Captain Solent and his men had hunted the inquisitor down without even pausing to think about it.
He had always assumed that it was the act of a desperate man, a heretic for whom sanity had finally crumbled under the weight of such elaborate deception.
But this data, this new information laid the seed of doubt in the Brother-Captain's mind. The Inquisitor's own voice spoke as though he was a loyal Imperial servant. He must have genuinely believed he was doing the Emperor's work.
Work that was set in motion many years before.
Before
Captain Hawkins watched the ground rushing by, metres below his feet. The wind howled inside the open troop compartment of the Valkyrie carrier as it flew nape of the earth at speed, at night, following the rocky contours of the valleys and re-entrants that snaked their way through the mountains of Charybdis C24.
Hawkins was seated on the assault bench alongside 5 other commandos of the 101st Commissariat Storm Trooper Battalion, listening to the microbead in his ear as the dark rocks whooshed past in a blur below, the howl of the wind rushing past outside in eager competition with the assault craft's turbines.
'1 minute to drop.' Came the pilots crackling voice over the vox, followed by the crewman manning the heavy bolter holding up an index finger for the benefit of those without access to the flight channel.
Hawkins passed on the gesture and saw his men do the same, knowing that the 6 commandos with their backs to him would be repeating the move on the other side of the craft.
Hawkins and his men were dressed in brown ballistic flightsuits, layered in lightweight armaplas and scarred matt black ceramite plate, covering torsos, thighs and knees.
It was damn hot rig, never failing to make Hawkins burst out in perspiration minutes after donning, even up in the freezing mountains.
Each man also wore cut down shooting gloves and high leg jump boots designed for harsh landings.
Over this was a comprehensive webbing rig containing everything, from a seemingly excessive amount of las power cells to melta bombs and climbing rope.
On their left shoulders the commandos wore a ceramite brassard upon which was mounted an upside down fighting knife, positioned for ease of access for cutting tangled rappelling lines and xenos throats.
Resting muzzle down between each man's legs was a hellgun, it's sinister black form shorter and chunkier than a regular lasgun and bearing a considerably greater punch. This particular pattern had a folding stock and attachment points for lamp packs, las-designators and other paraphernalia.
Each overpowered carbine would only get a maximum of 20-25 shots from a standard munitorum power cell, meaning the Storm Troopers simply carried twice as many.
The commando's heads were covered by mark 5 pressure helmets and re-breathers hid their faces, the faint glow of targeting optics barely visible over the left eyes of the men.
In addition to all this, each man carried specialist gear unique to his role, be it medic, demolitions, anti-armour etc.
Being in command, Hawkins took it upon himself to carry a short power sword in the form of a machete sheathed diagonally across his back and a sidearm in the form of a Godwyn-Deaz pattern bolt pistol strapped to his thigh, making the most of his rank privileges.
An ear splitting roar of afterburners echoed overhead as the convoy's escort, 2 lethal vulture gunships overtook the Valkyries and started their strafing run.
A volley of missiles and cannon fire spewed from the stubby wings of each craft as the lead Valkyrie decelerated hard, nose rising up in the air, giving Hawkins a momentary glimpse of the target area as muzzle flashes lit up the oppressing darkness.
The compound was built into the side of the mountain at the top of a wide defile, its single high wall granted a commanding view of the rocky valley, the natural feature offering absolutely no cover for any troops attempting an attack.
The compound had no exit, having received regular supply drops by ornithopter since the start of the war, the traitor forces content to leave the soldiers and civilians up there to fend for themselves.
Perched at the rear of the compound, which in effect was more of a small village, was a tall building made of bare rockrete, an indentation above the main entrance showing where an Aquila had been removed. The structure was topped with a large cluster of dishes and vox antenna.
Primary target.
The ordnance from the Vultures slammed into the wall of the compound with concussive force, obliterating the traitor guardsmen manning the guns mounted along its edge in torrent of lead and shrapnel.
The vultures peeled away into the night, afterburners howling as they were chased by lines of tracer, an anti-aircraft position inside the compound spewing a ceaseless barrage of 20mm flak rounds into the sky.
This is why the Valkyries flew so low, to stay under the hydra's sight line, this is why they couldn't fast rope straight into the compound.
The North face of the mountain sloped into a sheer drop for hundreds of metres beyond the peak immediately to the rear of the vox array, ruling out the inherent inaccuracies of a grav chute assault.
That left the trail, one way up, one way down.
'Suicide.' Major Shiba of the 405th Harikoni "Warhawks" had said when Hawkins suggested the frontal assault.
'2 Men with heavy bolters could hold a division at bay in that choke point provided they had the ammunition. My company will be cut to ribbons.'
'The vox array must be destroyed.' Hawkins had stated simply. Orders were there to be obeyed.
He had taken an instant dislike to the man, his reluctance to risk his precious drop troopers reeked of cowardice.
Hawkins thought of an old Guard limerick as he roped the ten metres from the assault craft, hitting the dirt with a thud and started charging up the jagged terrain towards the heavily reinforced rockrete wall at the top, some 800 metres away in the gloom.
It was a less than subtle anti-Commissariat ditty, overheard when serving alongside the armoured fist units of Armageddon.
Hey diddle diddle
Straight up the middle
They send you straight to your doom
With death in front
And death at your back
You'll be with the Emperor soon
He grinned inside his helmet, hearing little more than his own panting breath as he approached the target.
The rest of the Storm trooper platoon, his entire command, were in a loose formation around him, each huffing their way up the mountain under a heavy burden of ammo and armour, sucking in great lungful's of air through the claustrophobic re-breathers.
The Harikoni company were shuffling up behind them, beginning to lag behind already in the thin air, the altitude taking its toll.
For a Drop troop unit that fancied themselves elite, the storm trooper captain had to admit he wasn't impressed, especially as he was wearing heavier armour and carrying more gear than them.
For all the bravado and Simian-like posturing they displayed among their own kind, they seemed particularly meek when informed of his planned direct assault.
He reversed his opinion almost immediately as a heavy canister clanged to the earth directly in front of the solid wall spewing thick grey smoke, effectively screening it from view.
This was a spotting round, meaning that the Harikonis had set up their light mortars in good time at the landing-site, an essential part of Hawkins' plan. It also had the added benefit of obscuring the Imperial approach.
'Mortar line, this is ST-1. Add 100, fire for effect.' He breathed into his vox mic, making corrections on the fly, hoping that the mortar detachment commander was listening in.
'Uh ST1, many thanks, add 100, fire for effect.'
The booming of the mortar barrels coincided miserably with the staccato chatter of at least 2 heavy stubbers firing blind from the compound wall, the tracers kicking through the smoke in long bursts from left to right, leaving swirling patterns in the grey fug.
A line of impacts tore up the ground to Hawkin's right and pole-axed the trooper next to him off his feet with a crack of ceramite.
The Captain didn't break stride, just risked a glance to see the stricken commando pick himself right back up and resume the charge, saved by his carapace.
A barrage of mortar canisters landed behind the compound wall in a crescendo of metallic clangs, signalling the discharge of their lethal cargo with a characteristic hiss.
Nerve gas.
The nerve gas was lethal if ingested in large amounts, but used outside Hawkins bet they would drive the occupants of the converted village inside their homes, leaving the route to the target clear.
Catching hints of strangled gasps carried along by the fierce winds, Hawkins thanked the Emperor for breathing apparatus.
Nearing the objective, the Storm troopers of the 101st slammed into the compound wall in a clatter of plate, forming up in good order for the entry.
When Sgt Granger confirmed that every man was present, Hawkins barked orders through the squad vox.
'Squad 2 provide covering fire, Squad 1 prep climbing gear.' His squad all knelt down and begun unspooling climbing rope from their belts, attaching the extending alloy hooks to the ends once they had enough slack while Squad 2 backed away from the wall into the rapidly clearing smoke, weapons raised, switching their targeters to thermal to cut through the remainder.
Hawkins heard the painfully loud crack of 12 hellguns firing in quick succession, cutting off the racket of stubber fire instantly.
Surging to his feet, Hawkins and the commandos of Squad 1 hurled their grappling lines over the damaged compound wall and tugged hard, each man starting to walk up the wall as soon as their hooks found purchase.
Trooper Seth reached the top first, pushing himself the extra mile, the unanswered bullet crater in his armour a stain on his honour.
His under barrel grenade launcher coughed as Hawkins hauled his armoured body over the parapet of the damaged wall and knelt down, raising his rifle in time to see a frag grenade detonate among 2 traitor guard. The men had been writhing on the ground in agony, foaming at the mouth as the gas worked its way through their lungs, a discarded heavy bolter at their feet.
The grenade flashed and shredded flesh, flak and furred greatcoat as it detonated, blasting body parts into the air in an expanding cloud of dirt and shrapnel.