Janos blinked his eyes against the stinging, acrid smoke that wafted across the battlefield, bringing with it the potent scent of death. If it had been possible, he would have also closed his nostrils to block the cloying stench. Unsurprisingly, his Commissar had not seen fit to requisition breather masks, and so he was forced to bear this misery with all the stoicism demanded of an Imperial Guardsman.
His other senses fared no better. The earth-shattering roar of basilisk artillery fire drowned out all other sound, save for the rattle of Janos' own bones and the panicked pounding of blood in his ears. Dozens of staccato beats echoed every barrage, synchronizing with sprays of dirt and putrid viscera vomited from fresh craters in the snowy earth. Long-barreled cannons seethed with crimson heat from the stress of their relentless rhythm, searing Janos' back as he stood at attention, lasgun raised. Every now and then the crescendo of an impossibly bestial screech accented the melody of war, sending chills down his spine as if he had been immersed in ice. Sheer, primal terror was a merciless constant in his heart, and it threatened to rend his sanity. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his quivering muscles in submission so as not to run screaming and sobbing away from the front lines, after which he would no doubt be unceremoniously shot dead for his shameful cowardice.
"Run, and I will execute you myself!" the Commissar barked from behind his group of fourteen fellows as if echoing Janos' thoughts.
He gulped, then shot the others a sidelong glance of disbelief. The ones Janos saw were just as shaken as he, their faces warped in a mask of anxiety that surely mirrored his own. At least he could take malign comfort in the fact that he had been spared the agony of suffering alone.
"The Xenos scum rallies for another assault!" the Commissar relayed, barely managing to make himself heard over the omnipresent cacophony. "Raise your weapons for the Imperium and fire on my command!"
Janos found himself instantly redoubling his efforts to maintain a proper firing stance, his clammy hand gripping the barrel of his weapon just a little tighter as one eye cocked down the sight. It was a reflexive response of obedience born of instinct brutally drilled into him ever since his earliest days of training. It was as the ancient battle-philosophy of the Guard went: fear the commanders behind more than the monsters in front.
He did not have to wait long for the Commissar to be proven correct. Hulking forms materialized in the cloudy atmosphere, casting long, misshapen shadows that suggested bodily proportions of wholly inhuman resemblance. They came forward slowly, stalking at the edges of the Guardsmen's limited vision as if assessing the strength of the assembled humans.
Unfortunately for the aliens, this approach did not spare them from the wrath of the mechanical beasts. The basilisk rounds hammered into their obscene ranks, staggering many and felling a few. In response, the creatures surged forward, hissing as their monstrous steps shook the earth below.
They were more than eight feet tall, even hunched over as they were within their crustacean-like shells of thick, grey armor. Arrays of pinchers matching seemingly every conceivable shape and size protruded from their arms and chests. Their faces were vaguely human-like, save for the leathery-brown flesh and disproportionately gaping maw of razor-sharp, acid-drenched teeth that dominated the visage. Their eyes were black as coal, devoid of all emotion, except rage.
Janos could barely stand to look at the creatures, so he retreated within his own mind, becoming numb to the world around him. After searching the annals of his scattered, traumatized memories, he found the piece of information he was searching for: tyranids, that's what they were called. Aside from the fact that they were yet another of the endless hordes of savage enemies that threatened the reign of the Imperium, and therefore required eradication, Janos knew little. It was unsurprising; as a lowly, utterly expendable foot soldier, his superiors rarely saw fit to brief him with critical information. In fact, Janos knew not even the name of the planet on which he stood, let alone its history and the context behind the desperate battle in which had been ordered to fight, and, most likely, eventually sacrifice his life in the name of the Emperor.
If their size was any indication, Janos concluded that the tyranids possessed some form of rapid evolutionary ability: the prior wave had been composed of creatures bearing the same general qualities, but much smaller stature. They had come at the wall of Imperial troops in a reckless, lightning-fast swarm, dying by the hundreds merely to destroy one tank and several squads of guardsmen.
These enemies, though, lumbered ponderously by comparison and bore much thicker armor. Their numbers, being much smaller, left them less vulnerable to the mass fire of the basilisks. Fortunately for Janos and the other assembled humans, their size and lack of speed made it difficult to weave haphazardly between impact points. Many of the heavy 'nids stumbled and eventually perished after soaking multiple explosive shells, their carapaces cracking open with sickening clicks as their foul gore splashed in every direction. They died with ferocious resolve, twitching in attempts to crawl as they let out muffled, insect-like tunes before succumbing to their wounds.
Of course, not all were stopped by the artillery: no, that would have been too easy, Janos mused. Instead, many of the aliens broke past the uneven trenches of death carved into the ground by repeated shelling and assaulted the Hellhound tanks perched at even intervals around the perimeter.
Bolts of sickly-green acid issued forth in combination with rending claws as the monsters tore into the tanks. The crackle of nuclear fusion fire retaliated from the tank's large melta guns, nearly burying the sound of sizzling and groaning metal with an avalanche of auditory carnage.
It was at this point that Janos' Commissar, like many of the others stationed randomly among the squads, ordered his men to shoot. Janos complied robotically, emptying burst after burst of blinding red light from his weapon's power cell. It was difficult to tell if his shots were striking true and inflicting any damage: dozens upon dozens of other men aimed at the same tyranid, causing the field of his vision to exist as nothing but a wall of hateful red glares.
Despite the intensity of the violence, the foe did not relent. The tank nearest Janos ruptured under the assault of the alien he and his fellows had been attacking, causing a burst of electricity and bizarre mechanical debris to blanket the area. A horrified, bloodcurdling scream cut through the din as the monstrous animal leaned over the wreckage and plucked the bloodied crewmen with its claws. They twitched briefly before being gored and sliced apart by constricting appendages, but Janos knew those few moments must have been pure torture.
The tyranid swiveled, taking its time as it weathered the storm of laser rifle fire. Hundreds of small, sizzling holes had been bored into its shell, and several patches of cauterized skin could be seen on its underbelly and appendages. Still, the monster showed no sign of pain or hesitation. It charged heedlessly at its attackers, coming straight towards Janos' group.
Laser bolts struck it from all sides, and the monster stumbled, weakening from the concentrated fire. It sank down on a body part that vaguely resembled a human knee. Even so, it had made it within a mere fifty feet and was still an imminent threat.
With a groan of denial, the tyranid opened its distended maw and began to belch acidic slime in precise lines at the guardsmen. The green rays of death tore into their ranks, melting soldiers instantly upon contact. Their bodies writhed in agony as they convulsed and died screaming at the top of their lungs. One man was struck down two feet from Janos; a close friend of his with whom he was lucky enough to survive several battles. Tears soaked into his vision, blurring it as his heart filled with white-hot, all-consuming rage.
"We can't hold them!" a panicked voice was heard.
"This is hopeless!" another shouted.
A bolter pistol shot barked somewhere to Janos' left. From the corner of his eye, he saw a guardsman's head explode in a shower of crimson, drenching the area in blood and brains. Behind it, the smoking barrel of the Commissar's gun hung in the air.
"Fight harder, or I will kill you myself," the Commissar stated coldly.
The words had no effect on Janos; he was already dead-set on avenging his fellows as quickly as possible. He barely noticed the betrayal of the Commissar, so used was he to this tactic of encouragement. It had a profound effect on the others, however. The lasgun rounds began to release at a fevered pitch, hands stumbling even faster to load more power cells in an effort to keep the barrage constant.
"Fire, FIRE!" Janos bellowed without even realizing it, his throat becoming hoarse with the exertion.
Much to his dismay, the invigoration of his squad came too late. Nearly half of the men had been killed already, and more continued die all around him by the moment. In the back of his mind, he knew that something had to be done.
Janos ejected a power cell from his gun. It smoked as it fell to the icy ground, melting a hole upon impact. As he reached into his bandolier for another, he grit his teeth and cursed. It was futile. Clearly, something stronger than lasguns was required to destroy their foe.
His hand changed course and reached instead for the clasp of his bandolier and undid it. At the same time, his legs jolted into high gear, propelling the man forward in a frantic sprint. Janos' other arm shifted grip on the lasgun, holding it like a spear as he activated the powered bayonet. The metal blade began to vibrate menacingly, small arcs of electricity racing along its edge.
Within moments, Janos had broken clear of the loose ranks of guardsmen and had closed half of the distance to the beast. It took notice of him and snarled before releasing another streak of acid. Its movement was slow, however; weakened from the assault it had sustained. Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps it was skill, but Janos was able to duck at the right moment and slide the remaining distance. Even so, the attack was a narrow miss. Stray droplets of bile rained down on him as he did so, instantly disintegrating patches of his white-camo print armor, helmet, and snow gear. He felt intense burning sensations wherever the liquid struck, but the rush of adrenaline was strong enough to block the pain.
Janos rapidly approached the stunned creature, sliding along the sloped ground. With a savage war cry, he raised his bayonet. It crashed into the tyranid's belly with all the momentum of his charge, burying the blade to the hilt in alien flesh. A numbing shock battered his arms and legs, the impact momentarily disorienting him.
Luckily, Janos' foe was equally distracted. It stretched its neck upwards, convulsed, and released a howl. Xenos blood drenched him, but through the haze, Janos saw the monster recover and stare down at him with smoldering hatred.
Most of its appendages had been sheared off by the lasguns. The few that remained smashed at Janos, their spiked tentacles wriggling and interlocking claws snapping with carnal bloodlust in anticipation of the kill.
Janos threw his body to one side, rolling sideways. He felt one spine brush his back, slicing open a grisly wound as it inundated him with sharp pain and the sickening sensation of gushing blood. Yet Janos was alive, having once again thwarted his foe's attempts to kill him by an indescribably narrow margin. For this, he sent a quick mental prayer to the Emperor for his good fortune.
The tyranid's appendages were embedded in a crusty layer of ice, and it tugged emphatically to free itself. Janos smiled grimy as he realized that he still clutched the bandolier of power cells in his right hand. He knew what he needed to do.
Without hesitation, he wrapped the garment around his lasgun, which still jutted from the monster's body. Then he began to furiously work the various interfaces on the weapon in an improper fashion. Janos was now grateful for the long, torturous hours he had been forced to spend rehearsing the lasgun's maintenance procedures. With the knowledge of how to maximize offensive output without overloading the weapon's core came the knowledge of how to reverse the steps in order to intentionally destabilize it.
The lasgun began to hum and gyrate as he finished, causing the bayonet to tear even more viscously into the tyranid flesh. Yet the pain seemed to empower the alien, and it finally freed its 'arms' from the ground, swiping furiously at Janos.
In a dizzying blur of motion, he leapt to his feet, turned his back, and began to sprint with all his might. A rush of air slammed Janos, nearly toppling him. The effort was futile, however. The Guardsman recovered, and was gone within moments, his legs and lungs burning as he forced himself to go faster and faster.
Suddenly, Janos remembered the beast's projectile spit, and knew that his death was at hand. The line of fellow guardsmen, who wore expressions of disbelief on their pale faces, had stopped shooting. They were still another thirty feet or so away, and at point blank range, the tyranid wouldn't miss a second time. His luck had run out.
Janos slid to a halt and wrenched his muscles, pivoting as fast as he could. If he was doomed to die, he was resolved to at least die witnessing the grisly results of his handiwork.
He fixed his gaze and saw the large, grotesque head jerking forward and unhinging its jaw. He stared stubbornly into what seemed to be a black abyss stretching before him, preparing to swallow his soul into the afterlife.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" Janos screamed defiantly, his throat aching with an intensity that went unnoticed.
Green spittle foamed within the tyranid's mouth, then issued forth.
It did not strike Janos.
Instead, the acid slopped onto the ground as the beast's head reeled backward. Blinding streaks of gold were violently slamming into it, carving up pieces of its skull with the weight of their violence. Strips of flesh and fragments of bone scattered in their wake.
Janos turned, and saw a heavy weapons team on one of the embankments unloading their heavy bolter gun. The weapon was bigger than three men on its own, and took that many just to operate properly. Copious amounts of smoke bellowed forth from a massive barrel set upon a tripod, and spent shells covered the ground in such profusion that the snow could no longer be seen. Behind the pair of men, his electrified sabre pointing straight at the wounded tyranid, stood Janos' Commissar.
Heart pounding with gratitude and the exhilaration of victory, Janos turned back just in time to see his foe explode into a halo of crimson energy as his power cells were set of in a devastating chain reaction. He was forced to cover his eyes against the intensity, and when he dared to look once more, the tyranid was reduced to nothing but a sizzling heap of gore and blackened chitin.
Dumbfounded, Janos staggered back to his shattered squad. Where he had once seen resigned death stares, he now saw hope. The men whooped and hollered and some even jumped up and down. He received rough pats on the back and congratulatory remarks tinged with adoration.
"You showed those filthy aliens what the Imperial Guard are made of," one said, nodding.
"By the Emperor, you've won it for us!" another proclaimed.
Janos received their compliments with humility, too shocked by the sudden avalanche of emotions to speak or think. The adrenaline began to wear off, and he found himself staring listlessly into the distance, his limbs quaking from the delayed stress response.
The Commissar shook Janos from the stupor. "Take it," he stated solemnly.
Janos grumbled, feeling something pressed into his side. He looked down, and saw that it was a plasma rifle: a valuable and somewhat rare weapon among the guard. Only the sergeant of his squad had been permitted to carry one. The man must've died during the chaos of the attack.
"Why?" Janos asked with awe, gingerly taking the weapon.
"You've been promoted, Sergeant" the Commissar explained in a terse voice. There was tinge of respect in it; just a tinge, but it was more than Janos had ever expected.
Janos didn't know what else to say. He looked into the other man's eyes and nodded seriously, before showing a quick salute.
The Commissar smiled wryly. "Not that you'll likely have the position for long. Look."
Janos turned, following his superior's gaze along with the rest of the soldiers. Another wave of hulking tyranid forms could be seen through the frosty fog that ringed their defensive line. Their numbers had increased, and their size and shape had mutated. From what little Janos could tell, the next wave seemed to possess a stature somewhere between the extremes of the first two. Their shells were thick and cumbersome like their predecessors', yet not so large as to impede their mobility.
He turned and surveyed the front lines. Many other squads had suffered similar casualities to his, and almost none of the flame-spewing Hellhound tanks remained. The silence of the battle's aftermath was deafening; aside from the low, gutteral hiss of the tyranid horde relentlessly closing in like a pack of wolves, he could hear only ringing.
Dead bodies, discarded weapons, and mechanical debris littered the field. For each tyranid that had been killed, nearly a dozen men or tanks had fallen. They had survived, albeit for the moment, and for a steep price. Their ranks were broken and depleted. Without reinforcements, the aliens would likely overwhelm the defenders and surpass even the heavy weapon embankments.
And then, the Imperium's only foothold would fall.
Janos' stomach fell through his shoes, and he wobbled in place. The fleeting thrill of victory had been thwarted by the grim reality of the situation. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
"Focus, men! We are not yet done this day!"
As if to validate the Commissar's words, the next wave of tyranids rushed forward. The basilisks responded, unleashing explosions across the no-man's-land between armies. This variety, which attacked in even smaller numbers, found it much easier to evade the blanket of shelling. They twitched erratically and unpredictably, constantly changing trajectory as they contorted their limbs in seemingly impossible ways. Whether it was an intentional act born of reflexes and wit, or simple luck, Janos did not know. In either case, the tactic appeared quite effective. Very few of the monsters were blasted apart by the artillery.
As they began to approach the wall of foot soldiers, the Commissars gave the order to fire once more. Janos hesitantly obeyed. His plasma gun lurched as it released a blob of superheated material that crashed into the side of one creature. Although it was a solid hit, the blast did little. These enemies were nearly as resilient to their weapons as the previous group, yet they seemed to possess the speed of the one before that. Both traits worked in perfect harmony to produce a warrior that was tailored to their exact situation.
Outnumbered and outclassed, Janos knew that everyone was doomed. They lacked the firepower to hold back the third wave, and would therefore be momentarily torn to pieces.
Janos didn't want to die. Not this way, not struggling so pathetically against such an overwhelmingly powerful foe. The fact that he had won a paltry victory only made him feel worse. It was a humiliation that could only have been perpetrated by a pantheon of infinitely cruel gods.
Sighing, Janos continued to fight, but his heart was no longer in it. His shots missed or hit; did not notice or care. The only thing he was conscious of was the inevitable reality of his horrifically painful death. Even when scores of the monsters reaped his fellow guardsmen around him like a scythe through wheat, he could do nothing but stare on blankly, defeated.
Janos felt himself thrown to the ground he lazily oriented himself, only to look straight into the soulless eyes of a tyranid. It loomed over him exactly as the one he had killed, only this version was more deadly.
There was a dull thud, and Janos' world became black for a moment. When he finally recovered, his perspective had shifted once again. He blinked, and surmised from the fact that the world had warped sideways that he laid parallel to the ground. He could feel the oppressively cold ground beneath him, its unrelenting solidity mocking him with its strength.
Columns of smoke and water shot into the air, followed by delayed, muted thuds. Janos supposed they were basilisk shell impacts, and that his eardrums had been blown out by the close proximity.
He looked down at himself and found that he could not; it wasn't that his neck refused to move, but rather, than there was not much of a body to gaze down upon. His torso was mangled beyond all recognition and his arms were nowhere to even be felt. Only one of his precious legs remained; the other was a mushy blur perched some ten feet away.
Janos panicked for a split second, then felt himself calming. He had already accepted his fate, after all. The only thing surprising about the turn of events was the fact that the basilisks had been ordered to fire upon their own men. Clever. He had been nothing more than a trap all along.
Just how many contingencies did the military minds of the Imperium have? How far did their cold, callous machinations reach?
Janos did not know or care. He did smile, though, at the demise of the tyranids all around him. Evidently, they had been just as surprised as the Guardsmen, and without the speed of their original charge, it was much more difficult to avoid the bombing. Dozens upon dozens were caught in the crossfire and mangled equally badly as Janos watched from his limited, slanted perspective. Blood and viscera, both human and alien, seemed to fall in a slow-motion rain.
With a sigh, the battered warrior's eyelids began to sag. He had done his duty. He hadn't abandoned the glorious combat, dying honorably and brutally in the pursuit of xenos eradication, as an Imperial Guardsman should. Janos could rest now. He knew he had earned it.
Yes, he supposed that he would have prefered to live, but was there really any point, when reality was this miserable?
Something jolted Janos from his dying throes. Vision fading and tunneling, he saw his blood-soaked, amputated Commissar lying on the ground next to him. Had he been there before? No, he must've fallen…
Janos. The Commissar mouthed at him. At first, Janos didn't even realize the man was talking. Eventually, and with much strain, he was barely able to puzzle out the words.
Sacrifice...ssary. We ha...old the line. With th...oothold, Imperium will re...ake the..anet.
Janos nodded, barely comprehending. He smiled wanly at his former leader, content in the fact that they would be equal in death. It was only when the Commissar began frantically pointing behind them with his remaining hand that Janos began to catch on.
His last memory was one of a tall plateau...the one on which the basilisks had been perched. A fleet of dropships was just touching down on its soil…
...and from it, came squads upon squads of marching Guardsmen and rolling Hellhounds, each identical to his own.
