Date Published: 2017/07/02

Date Re-Edited:

Warhammer and Stargate: Atlantis, are the sole properties of Games Workshop/THQ and MGM respectively. This is a work of Fiction, as well as non-profit, and thereby complies with their 'Term and Conditions' stipulated by the Companies themselves. The only thing I seek to gain with this Literary Work; is to improve my Creative Writing abilities, and if in the process someone were to enjoy what I have written…

So be it.

Chapter 3

–This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things–

John Shepherd had seen a lot in the last year and a half. Traveling to another Galaxy had the tendency to broaden your horizons. Then again maybe the Colonel just had a knack for finding trouble. This, however, was a new one…

"What… is it?" Shepherd hissed under his breath to a shell-shocked McKay, never once taking his eyes off the… mechanical monstrosity standing in front of them.

McKay – in an oddly uncharacteristic display – had nothing to say, he just watched the strange… stitched together creature… shuffle passed them towards the Jumper. The… Cybernetic Thing… who's designers had clearly plumbed the deepest darkest (and most twisted) depths of the perverted mind of Doctor Victor Frankenstein to create such a twisted thing… It paid them no heed.

It just stomped passed them, the pipe for its arm mounted – no… the Nozzle was its arm… trailing behind it. The creature was a grotesque sight with its brass skull-like face, unblinking red eyes, the hissing re-breather that had clearly been bolted to its face… god it was awful. It's 'uniform' was no better, the tan sack-like material looked like it had been riveted in place, the hob-nailed boots looked no better–

"What is it doing?" Teyla inquired, she seemed more curious over what it was doing rather than what it was.

Shepherd had no idea and since Rodney had yet to regain his greatest super power… colloquially known as speech, their resident scientist wasn't in the position to speculate. All that was left was–

"Don't look at me," Ronon responded gruffly, as he threw his brown leather satchel over his shoulder, "I've never seen one of those before–"

"The Servitor is attempting to refuel your Craft," declared a very British sounding voice from behind one of the nearby Space-Craft.

The man who stepped out from behind the Craft was tall and dressed in black. Up close Shepherd, and his Team, caught a quick glimpse of him, before–

"Commissar William Stanforth, a pleasure to make your acquaintance," the giant of a man introduced himself, "the poor blighter can't find the Promethium Cap. Not that I blame him, I've never seen a Craft quite like it…"

"It… it's-erhm, it has an internal generator, no need for fuel… I think," McKay muttered finally tearing his eyes away from the poor damned thing, before admitting, "it's quite old, we've… er-never had to refuel it before…"

"Ah a Relic," the Commissar proclaimed sagely, what that was supposed to mean the Atlantean Team had no time to inquire, "if you'd follow me, my men will escort you to the bridge…"

As Commissar Stanforth quickly ushered them towards a nearby bulkhead, they passed dozens of bustling crewmen in thick-tan space-suits and plenty more of those Frankensteinian Cyborg-Creatures.

"Through here," the Commissar directed as he stepped through a large Gothic-archway, they were met on the other side by almost two dozen heavily armed men and women in dark body armour with full face masks and helmets, "it is customary that – although quite often futile – that I request that you relinquish your arms…"

"They're for self-defense," Colonel Shepherd insisted cautiously, neither making any moves that could be considered threatening nor backing down, "and with all due respect, I would prefer to keep them with us…"

"I understand Colonel, my men and I will endeavor to ensure that such preparedness is unnecessary. Now that the formalities are out of the way, the Captain is awaiting our presence on the bridge," and with that flowery declaration they were on their way.

The corridors they passed through were a bustling hive of activity, each corridor was more than wide enough for six men (make that six heavily armed and armoured men) to walk abreast – shoulder to shoulder. There were a myriad of uniforms on display. From the rough Space-Suits of the Deckhand, too the blue-grey dress uniforms of various armed crewmen going about their duties. Occasionally they'd pass by a red-robed man or woman, shepherding along more of those cybernetic creatures, but they were few and far between.

It was a good fifteen minutes into their journey, that Shepherd started to notice a pattern. There may have been hundreds of blue-wearing-armed-guards, a thousand or more tan-wearing-sailors and more red-robed… people… than you could shake a stick at, but there was no-one more heavily armed than their escort… and no-one wearing armour quite like theirs.

Shepherd had so many questions…

"Nice Ship you got here," was as good as any place to start.

"Indeed," Commissar Stanforth replied with a chuckle, "by your wide-eyed stares, I suspect that this is your first time aboard a Imperial Naval Vessel?"

"First encounter period," McKay muttered irritably, before the Colonel could stop him.

The scientist didn't seem to care, he was too busy scanning the walls, floors, ceiling – hell – nearly anyone they walked passed, with his Life-Signs Detector. The Commissar wasn't all that surprised by McKay's outburst…

"Then we are further out from the Galactic Rim, than Command initially feared," Stanforth replied gravely, as he marched forward unflinchingly.

Clearly this was a sore topic, so Colonel Shepherd decided to bravely change the subject, "so… fancy kit your boys got here. Not a lot of it going around by the looks of it."

"Ah, but of course… the Arms-men, make up the bulk of the ships security forces. Battlefleet Fellspire recruits them primarily from the PDF divisions on Mara Prime, the work is hard and often thankless, and it kills almost as many as it maims…," Stanforth stated calmly, with the air of a man who'd long since come to terms with his lot in Life.

The evidence of the Commissars claims were as plain as day; of the two or three dozen Arms-men they had passed in the last minute-and-a-half, there was perhaps twenty or thirty cybernetic limbs between them all.

The Commissar was quick to return to topic at hand, his men, "while the Planetary Defence Forces make up the bulk of our standing military, it is within the Grenadier Regiments that our true pride rests. Each man a veteran, with more than a decade's experience, equipped with the finest arms and armour our Planetary Forge can provide. From the finest Lysndes-Pattern Hellguns to our unique Carapace-Exo-Skeletons… we expect the best and we provide them with the best. Take Simmons here," Stanforth extolled, as a broad leather clad hand found its way onto the shoulder of a nearby Grenadier, "he was awarded medals for Valour and Courage Under-Fire more times than he dares to admit, a veteran of the last War on Armageddon–"

"Your too kind sir," the Grenadier in question – Simmons – replied quietly, "just doing my duty. Never did step foot on Armageddon, Throne-Be-Praised, spent most of the time repelling boarders in contested space. Filthy Green-Skins, always did bring a smile to my face watching one of their death-traps burn-up on re-entry–"

"Ha! Good man, this Colonel is what we strive to cultivate. Well trained, well disciplined… calm under fire, but by the Emperor, ready to unleash a terrible vengeance at a moment's notice upon the enemies of man," at that declaration, every single one of the Grenadiers stopped and cried–

"BLOOD AND FURY! FOR THE EMPEROR!"

The sudden display of such fervor was startling, what was even more… alarming… was just how quickly the Commissar managed to bring his men back in line, "good, good, however we have a schedule to keep… as you were."

The Grenadiers were quick to reform their ranks around Shepherds Team, a smooth fluid grace that the Colonel hadn't noticed before, not until Stanforth had pointed it out so… artfully. It left John with so many questions, best to start small…

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to answer a few more questions Commissar?"

"You're a guest Colonel, but of course ask your questions, if I can answer… I will."

"Could you explain some of the… symbolism around us?" McKay snapped before John could get a word in edgewise.

Stanforth was more than accommodating, "such as?"

"The arches, the brass, the steeples–"

"Ha ha ha, I'm afraid your asking the wrong man my friend. My knowledge is more… Martial in Nature, and while my schooling at the Schola Progenium was broad… it was not that broad."

"Oh well, uhm… Ronon any questions?" the Colonel asked the man bringing up the rear.

"Are we there yet?"

"Ha-ha, very funny," Shepherd muttered as he paused to think for a moment, his eyes drifting across the pale grey plates of their armed guard, "One-Two-Two-Three… I see that nearly everyone of your men has it stamped on their armour, that's their division number right?"

"So much more," Stanforth replied knowingly, "it's not much of a secret, we adopted the Cadian Military Unit Identification Standard in the early 32nd Millennium. First number is the platoon, then the Company and finally the Regiment. Take Simmons here… sound off Trooper!"

"Corporal Simmons. First Platoon, Second Company, Twenty-Third Voidwalkers, sah!" the Trooper in question called out mid-march, saluting but not breaking step with the rest of the formation.

"Good to know, Com–"

"Pardon me Colonel, but we're nearly there, no sudden movements," the Commissar warned as they marched through a final Gothic arch, into a broader chamber beyond.

The chamber was very brightly lit, but as his eyes adjusted the Colonel could make out more and more of the room. They had entered a heavily fortified chamber, there had to be more than fifty Grenadiers entrenched between the thick sloping walls. There were at least three heavy weapons positions that he could see, the spotlights didn't exactly make it easy, add to that there was only one way into the Chamber–

"It's a Chokepoint," Ronon muttered impressed, "good one too–"

"Quiet!" Simmons hissed, waving them to silence.

Ahead, Commissar Stanforth marched forward until he stood directly in front of the first barricade–

"I Request Access to the Bridge!" the tall officer called out over the heads of the men in front of him.

"Name and Rank!" returned a challenge from the shadows behind the spot-lights.

"William Stanforth! Fleet Commissar!"

"Hold and Await Confirmation!"

The atmosphere in the chamber was tense, they all stood ramrod straight, none more so than the Commissar, waiting… waiting…wai–

A small blur shot out over the fortifications, gliding – hovering – toward the Commissar. The spotlights made it hard to make out, but when it stopped moving–

"What the–"

"Shh!"

A hushed silence filled the chamber. There, in front of Stanforth, was a human skull. The deathly visage floated directly before the Commissar… its right eye-socket glowing an ominous bloody red. The eye began to glow, brighter and brighter, until–

The all-clear given, Stanforth waved them forward, the barricade in front of them lowering into the floor. They quickly made their way passed the entrenched positions towards a wide cargo-elevator in the rear of the chamber.

Stanforth waved anyone who tried to speak to silence. They passed three more check-points, each more rigorous than the last. By the final check-point – the one with the quartet of skull-faced turrets sticking out of the ceiling – the group was starting to get nervous… well except for Stanforth, and Ronon, and the Grenadiers, and Teyla… and Shepherd–

"Calm down Rodney," Shepherd placated the nervous scientist, "I'm sure we're almost there–"

"Yeah, well I felt that last one."

"Infra-Sonics," Commissar Stanforth muttered as he rubbed his right shoulder uncomfortably, "it's used to detect low-tech suicide-devices. Implanted explosives, volatile blood chemistry…"

"Is all that security really necessary?" McKay muttered petulantly.

"Sadly, it is… we're here," Stanforth announced, as he led them into a vast multi-tiered Chamber.

The place was a marvel, rivalling anything found on Earth, the Muriel on the vaulted ceiling alone could certainly give the Sistine Chapel a run for its money. The bridge was a hive of activity, each of the arching platforms filled with dozens of those macabre Cyborgs overseen by almost as many red-robed wardens and blue-clad Officers. There was enough gold frogging in the room to circle the Earth ten times over.

Stanforth led them across a gantry over the rear most stations towards a dais, at the highest – center-most – point in the Chamber. They passed several more Grenadiers, as they made their way to the dais… even from a distance it seemed very crowded. Officers in blue and gold, robes of all shades… blue, red, white… even an impossibly tall Cyborg with a gilded wide collar… all gathered round an austere man seated upon a small throne, arguing with a tall blond woman wearing a dark navy hooded cloak.

They were met a short distance from the Throne by a broad-shouldered man in a dark greatcoat over a set of Grenadiers Carapace-Armour, he had dark hair going grey at the temples, and introduced the man as, "Major Diarmad MacDonnchadh, he's in overall command of the Second Company–"

"There's no time for pleasantries," the Major snapped harshly, his accent was a strange balance between an Irish Brogue and a Scottish Burr, "we're becalmed, but the Navigators… sensing… some-thin'–"

"All we can do is–"

"Perhaps we can help," Colonel Shepherd offered stepping forward, "Doctor McKay is well versed in the Local Threats, Rodney–"

Shepherd turned to find that McKay wasn't standing behind him, in fact he was standing further away looking over the shoulders of one of the Cyborgs hardwired into one of the stations that ran along the edge on the Command Dais.

"Rodney–"

Boom.

"Rodney! What did you do!"

"It wasn't me! I swear!" the next blast threw them off their feet.

"Ow… This is why we can't have nice things," Shepherd muttered from the floor.

As you can see, I am trying very hard to be funny, but not too funny. Also I tend to only name the chapter once I've written the last funny remark, which should hopefully explain the monster of a Chapter Title.

Not making much progress writing more Chapters on this thing, but I am about 4 Chapters into a pretty good Mass Effect x Deus Ex Crossover (with a little Syndicate thrown in for flavor). Here's hoping that playing Dawn Of War III might help turn that around. The chapters are averaging about 8 and half thousand words, so far.

Oh, and be very glad I'm posting this now and not around mid-night. I'm tired now, and I almost forgot to post… and then I almost posted Chapter 4 instead of 3.

That would have been embarrassing.

Next Update: 2017/07/31