Nothing But a List of Names to Mark his Ascension

Chapter 10: Rising Star

Note: I do not own Warhammer 40,000 or Dawn of War, I am simply writing a different perspective to the events portrayed.

In the inky blackness of space, the Armageddon desperately held off the ork craft. People on the dark side of Calderis could see the flashes of magma cannons and melta shells from the orbital battle. The ork craft were numerous, but primitive. Many were nothing more than meteoroids with simple engines strapped on the backs. For a Strike Cruiser like the Armageddon, they were nothing. However, multiple ork kroozers were hidden in the field of roks.

Apothecary Gordian was tense, brow furrowed under his pure white helmet. The Armageddon and her crew had performed admirably as of yet, but there were still dozens, if not hundreds of ork craft out there. He gripped the edge of the command lectern, from which he had not left in more than six hours. The view screen in front of him showed a sea of red dots representing ork craft. His flotilla was insignificant in comparison. One on one, only his Strike Cruiser could face an ork Kroozer. I must prevent roks from reaching the surface, he thought. However, I must also eliminate enemy orbital support.

"Apothecary!" shouted a Chapter serf from his tactical console, "The roks are moving to Calderis! The projected landing zone is just as predicted!"

"Understood. Comm officer," he said, speaking to a serf on his right, "move the escort craft into an intercept course with the roks, have them stop as many as they can."

"Transmitting, Apothecary!" the man replied.

Gordian smiled. If the escorts can eliminate some of the roks, Captain Thule will have an easier time. He looked out the bridge window at the ork fleet. Even with his enhanced vision, he could only make out specks in the blackness. Many of those specks were the explosions of ork propelled meteors.

He raised his voice, speaking to the bridge crew. "Tac officers, search for large signals, we must discover the locations of the ork kroozers."

Before he could even finish speaking, a tac officer exclaimed, "Apothecary, large ork vessel moving out of formation! It's firing torpedoes sir!"

"Initiate evasive maneuvers. Lock onto the heat signal and fire a melta torpedo spread as a counter attack." Gordian was calm, even though the torpedoes were moving at hundreds of miles a second; it would take more than ten minutes for them to arrive, plenty of time to evade, he thought. After a few tense moments, a gunnery officer reported a target lock, and soon their own torpedo spread was streaking through space.

Gordian looked back at the tactical map. The escort craft had engaged the roks, but there were too many. The Blood Ravens did not have the Aurelian Navy Fleet with them, and as such did not have the manpower to mine the shipping lanes. Roks were destroyed by the dozen, but dozens still made it through.

A defense officer reported that the torpedoes were less than a minute for impact. The forward void shields were ready. "Brace for impact!" shouted Gordian, his vox enhanced voice echoing throughout the bridge. The Strike Cruiser rocked with explosions; however its void shields stood fast. The God-Emperor was with us, thought Gordian, only two torpedoes hit. As the bridge settled down, Gordian saw the blip representing the Kroozer disappear from the display.

"Very good crew. Fire the forward weapon batteries on another barrage; we must aid the escort craft with those roks." Space combat suited Gordian, although it could be tense at times, it was also very clinical. It was almost like surgery, the tiniest things could result in victory or loss, and their effects were only known long after the event that caused them had passed.

"Uhh, my Lord? We have some odd readings down here. I think you should see for yourself."

Gordian stepped down from his position and walked down to the officer, in front of one of the more precise tactical charts. His console showed that several of the larger ork craft were pulling away from the horde of roks. Before he could comment, the Navigator was there. Gordian had not noticed him enter. Unlike earlier, the Navigator was now calm, perhaps because he realized the power of the Astartes fleet. The mutant quietly said "They are leaving. With the way the tides run, they will be all across the sector in days."

Gordian paled. He could not; he must not let this happen. From where he stood he ordered, "All craft, divert fire to the disengaging orks! Th-they cannot leave the system!" He shook himself, he was panicking. If the orks left the system, the Blood Ravens would not be able to aid for quite some time. Meridian was under martial law, so it was better off than most, but the jungle world of Typhon was a perfect environment for orks to grow.

The Comm Officer told Gordian, "Hunter-class destroyer Menelaus questions your order! They say that it will bring them too close to the roks!"

"Tell them to follow my orders or Kyras himself will hear about this!" replied Gordian tersely, displeased that someone under his command would disobey him.

"The Menelaus is on the move" confirmed the Comm Officer. Gordian returned to his lectern and looked at the tactical display. His escort craft were trying to move around the sea of roks to gain a line of sight on the retreating ships. One ork ship was already under fire from the Armageddon, and if the predictions were correct, its red dot would blip out of existence in five minutes. Then an alarm pierced the relative silence of the bridge. He looked first to the tactical map, where one of his ships was marked as destroyed. He looked out the bridge viewport, below him, easily seen against the black of space was a flash, no doubt signifying the destruction of a space craft.

"All ships! Status?" questioned Gordian. The officers on the long vox checked in with every ship in range.

"It's the Menelaus sir!" Shouted a chapter serf.

Gordian looked on in shock. "Emperor preserve them." He whispered, then asked "What happened, how did we lose them?" Before he could respond, another alarm blared.

"Sir, Cobra-class frigate Wrath of Aegea reports heavy damage, casualties in the hundreds. Hunter-class destroyer Wings of the Corvidae is listing, heavy damage to bridge and engines."

Gordian finally realized it. "All craft, pull away from the roks, they have ships hidden within them, out of our sight!" It was my fault, he thought, his eagerness resulted in the deaths of hundreds.

As the craft pulled away from the ambushers hidden in the roks, the Wings of the Corvidae exploded in a brilliant flash of light.

Gordian grimaced. It was over now. They could not stop the roks, nor could they keep the others from fleeing. He walked to the vox officer's station and tapped into the frequency. "Apothecary Gordian to all ships, we are combat ineffective, pull back and regroup. The Emperor will preserve the souls of the lost. Knowledge is power." He returned to the Captain's chair, and sat down for the first time in six hours. The fleet was regrouping; their ranks thin with the losses incurred from the ork ambush. Gordian was puzzled. It was strange for orks to use such strategy, he thought.

The nav officer stood and walked to where Gordian was sitting. The man looked tired, his eyes had dark circles under them and his grey uniform was damp with sweat. He was holding a piece of vox paper. "My lord, a craft is exiting the warp behind us; it is broadcasting a Blood Ravens signal. Orders?"

"One of our own? It seems our reinforcements have arrived. Allow them to board." The officer made the sign of the Aquila and returned to his station. As he left, Gordian activated his personal vox.

"Sergeant Tarkus," he said, "prepare your squad, our Force Commander has arrived."

Apothecary Gordian marched down the hallways of the Armageddon to the drop pod bays. There, he was planning to see Tarkus and their Force Commander off. The corridors were bustling with chapter serfs and servitors. It was as if Gordian was striding through a sea of children. After a short walk, he had reached the drop pod bay. The large room was quiet. Very few were preparing for planetary drop. Sergeant Tarkus stood with his squad near the fifth drop pod from the entrance. The sergeant had chosen five men to join him. Gordian recognized the familiar armor of Brothers Nikephoros and Lyon, each blessing their bolters before the combat drop. Behind the tactical squad, Techmarine Martellus was whispering to the machine spirit of the drop pod. Also waiting was Apothecary Harkon, who was prepared to accompany the squad, bolter at the ready.

Tarkus himself was prepared, waiting for the Commander to arrive. He nodded acknowledgement at Gordian as he entered. The tactical sergeant had his bolter strapped to his leg and was carrying his helmet under his arm. Gordian walked up to him and removed his helmet. "This is my fault Sergeant Tarkus, my eagerness cost us a great deal."

"You made a decision Apothecary; sometimes the Emperor requires deaths in his name. Those men died well."

Gordian was not entirely convinced, but before he could comment, the double doors to the bay opened with a hiss. Turning, Gordian caught his first glimpse of their new Force Commander. His armor was as beautiful as anyone would expect from one of his rank, but what surprised Gordian the most was his face. The Commander was young, no more than a hundred years old. His brown hair was well combed and his face was untouched by the scars of battle save for a single service stud.

The Commander strode up to the assembled marines. Tarkus stepped forwards, "Commander, I am Sergeant Tarkus, welcome to the Armageddon. If you would ple-"

The Commander cut him off saying "There is no time for introductions. There are orks to kill. I am Aramus, you will follow my orders and victory will result. None shall find us wanting. For the Emperor." He walked directly past Tarkus into the drop pod. Tarkus seemed a bit ruffled. Not because he had been interrupted, but because he prided humbleness above almost everything.

Gordian had heard about this, the Commander known as Aramus was an upstart. Due to his elevated status, he believed himself better than others. Not to the extent of a certain Captain of the Honor Guard however. Brushing treasonous thoughts from his mind, Gordian watched the squad board the drop pod and strap themselves in. With a press of a button, the pod was closed off from the rest of the bay, and with a shock, it was gone.

Martellus moved from the control panel to stand with Gordian. "Apothecary," he said, "What do you think of our new Commander?"

"I believe him sorely lacking in modesty Techmarine." Gordian replied.

"They all learn eventually, Brother."

"I certainly hope so."

Not as planned, thought Captain Thule. The orks had pushed them from the station. Now his brothers were scattered across the valley. The station that connected the tunnels was overrun with orks. Four of the initiates from Priam's squad had died attempting to hold it. When they had pulled back to the secondary positions, the orks had pursued as predicted. However they had come in much larger numbers than predicted. Something must have happened in space.

Mercutio's squad had retreated to the ridgeline and was now stuck in constant combat with ork tankbustas and shoota boyz. To the west of Mercutio, Thule stood upon a mound of earth; above his squads of initiates who were taking cover in the trench constructed at the fall back point. Calderis' sun had just now risen, and the battlefield was bathed in the orange light of the star. He had around twenty initiates with him, fresh recruits. Many had not even received half of their implants.

Thule hefted his heavy bolter, sunlight reflected off both it and the gold trim of his power armor. The orks were pouring across the open ground towards their position, and he had plenty of ammo. As confident as he was however, he knew he was in dire straits. They would soon be overwhelmed. He steadied himself, and opened up with his heavy bolter. He had loved that weapon ever since he was a devastator. He loved the power it had, as well as the voice singing praise to the Emperor. A voice that never tired so long as one had ammo for it.

He dragged the weapon in a wide arc. The high caliber bolts tore through the ranks of the orks, their green limbs and thick torsos shattering and covering the orange sand with their thick blood. The report of the weapon was a hymn in his ear, and no ork that received his sermon lived to take another step.

"Initiates! Stay in cover! Kill the orks that are in the open!" His brothers opened fire with enthusiasm, sending more orks to lie on the dusty earth. Sergeant Ariston stood with them, his combat shotgun never missing its mark. He killed ork after ork, but still more came from the mouth of the tunnel.

Is there no end to them? Thought Thule. His vox crackled in his ear. The Commander was on his way. Pausing for a moment, he looked up to see a streak of red from the sky. A drop pod. He grinned, the tide had turned.

"Scouts, help has arrived, hold on a little longer!" The orks had dropped behind what cover they could to escape Thule's heavy bolter, not that it would help them. Though their numbers were great, they could not reach the Astartes' position alive. Again Thule's vox sounded, and he heard an unfamiliar voice in his ear.

"Captain Thule? I am Force Commander Aramus, here to provide aid." As Thule had thought, it was the newly arrived Force Commander.

He smiled and said, 'Welcome Commander, I am in command here on Calderis, it seems you have dropped south of our position. Aid us in routing these orks and you will have my gratitude."

"I am on my way Captain, the Emperor Protects."

Ocella Lyon and the rest of Tarkus' squad deployed from the drop pod with practiced efficiency. To their north, the sounds of battle were audible, a rumbling that was marked by the crack of bolter fire. Lyon looked at their two guests, Commander Aramus and Apothecary Harkon. Harkon was known to Lyon. He was dependable as an Apothecary, but Lyon had never seen him in a fight. Aramus was different. Lyon expected that one of his rank and youth would be powerful, but the way he carried himself suggested an overblown arrogance.

The force gathered in front of the drop pod. Aramus inspected the Astartes. In his hands he carried a power sword and bolt pistol, and his head was bare. Tarkus asked, "Commander is it wise to fight without a helmet?" Though it was commonplace for those of higher command to forgo the use of helmets, Tarkus had rejected this idea. A helmet could be the difference between life and death. He removed his in a combat zone only rarely.

"The Emperor protects." Said Aramus with a smile. "An I would have my enemies know their killer."

Already Lyon had an impression of the new Commander. He was certainly brave. Lyon expected things now. Without another word the squad set off to the north at a brisk run. The terrain was light and the moving was easy. Nearing the battleground, the bolter fire became louder and Lyon could hear the savage howls of the greenskins.

Not much longer, the Astartes met their first opponents. Eight orks, a flanking team most likely, had spotted the Space Marines charging out of the more mountainous terrain. Before Tarkus could order his squad to fire, Aramus was in the middle of them. His power sword lopped limbs and sprayed red mist into the air. Lyon watched as the Commander murdered the orks. It was not a fight; the orks were simply animals to slaughter. Next to him, Apothecary Harkon chuckled, "that is what a Space Marine is, Brother Lyon."

Maybe it was, thought Lyon. Aramus had certainly proved his worth in combat. With the flanking attack dead, the squad rushed forward. Within moments, the center of the battle was in sight. Lyon saw the valorous figure of Captain Thule standing on a large mound of earth above his scouts. The bareheaded Captain was mowing down orks by the dozen with his heavy bolter, but there were still more coming from the mouth of the station. His scouts desperately poured fire into the mob, but were doing little to thin their numbers.

"For the Emperor!" shouted Aramus. He charged ahead of the group as Tarkus curtly ordered the squad to open fire. Lyon aimed with the help of his helmet HUD and opened fire. It was impossible to miss such a large group. Every shot impacted an ork, the savage greenskin exploding a millisecond later. He fired and fired and when his bolter clicked empty, Lyon calmly reached down and replaced the magazine. With a snap, the bolt was in place and Lyon began firing again.

The flanking attack had caught the orks off guard, but they quickly turned to fight their new opponents. Their primitive firearms were nearly useless against power armor. Lyon and the rest of the squad took cover behind a small group of rocks nonetheless, the perfect position to fire upon the horde. Only Aramus and Harkon pressed forwards.

Aramus charged forward, rolling and impaling the first ork he met on the edge of his power sword. The beast fell heavily. Recovering his stance, Aramus pressed forwards. Every ork in his path fell, whether it was through a bolt round through the chest or the flashing power sword. An ork swung a crude axe at his head and he calmly stepped aside and moved past the ork. He stabbed behind him, killing the ork and at the same time raised his bolt pistol to shoot another in the face. His armor and face was spattered with the blood of the alien.

As Lyon fired, he saw the true worth of Aramus. He was an excellent combatant. The orks could not lay a single blow on him. He had not parried once and his fighting was precise. Aramus was a dancer in combat, though a brutal one. He sailed past orks to deliver brutal chops and stabs. He was not graceful, simply untouchable. Harkon was different however. He had emptied his bolter on the charge, and lowered his shoulder to ram the first ork in his way. The ork died with a crushed body and the next three in his path were killed with fierce barehanded blows. A large nob swung its club at Harkon. With crazed laughter he ducked the attack and grappled with the ork. Pulling it down by its armor plates, Harkon head butted the ork four times. The ork stumbled; the Apothecary's helmet had shattered its jaw. Harkon leapt up and grabbed the ork around the neck, and tore its head off with a nasty ripping noise. His white armor would need a good cleansing. Lyon had an unhealthy reminder of Sergeant Ariston. The quiet scout had an unnatural fixation with tearing off body parts.

With the death of the nob, the orks were lessened in strength. Every once in a while, Lyon could see the orks strike at each other. The nob's death had shattered their resolve and they were fighting over who was the new leader.

"Forward." Ordered Tarkus. The six marines advanced from cover to cover. The orks were caught in a pincer between Thule, Aramus and Mercutio, who was now pressing down from the ridgeline. The faceless Sergeant's plasma gun reduced every ork in its sights to green sludge.

Thule leapt down from his position and slowly walked into the combat, firing his heavy bolter at the hip. It was much less stable this way, but he needed to lead from the front. "Die greenskins!" he shouted. Before he could take ten steps he encountered a helmetless marine with a power sword. The young Astartes was covered head to boot in ork blood. His bolt pistol was empty and he was swinging his blade two handed. Thule watched as he grabbed an ork by the arm, and pulled it directly into the pommel of his blade. The pommel broke the ork's skull and the squat alien howled as it died.

As he did so, the marine shouted "Is this it? Show me what passes for fury among your misbegotten kind!" Another ork charged him, and he cut its hand from its body before the ork could even raise its blade. An instant later, the headless ork joined the dozens of others littering the valley. The squads, let by Thule and Aramus, pushed the orks back with little more resistance. As they entered the station, the orks began to retreat through the tunnel they had arrived from. Thule fired his heavy bolter, tracing it across the roof of the tunnel. The high caliber bolts broke the rock. The falling pieces effectively sealed the tunnel. Harkon and the other tactical marines mowed down the orks that had not been able to flee.

Thule sighed. Victory was theirs, for the time being. He flipped the safety of his bolter and sat on a long grey fuel pipe. Aramus stood in front of him. The marine was wiping his face with a small white cloth he had grabbed from somewhere in his armor. Tarkus and Mercutio exchanged greetings and moved to gather around the Captain. Apothecary Harkon wandered, treating the injured.

Ocella Lyon calmly reloaded his bolter. He was nearly out of ammunition. He looked over to Nikephoros. The Pale Monster had removed his helmet. Sweat beaded his face, but he looked pleased with himself. The both of them had fought admirably. Lyon moved over to him and said, "37."

"46. Better luck next time," was the response. Lyon smiled. Nikephoros was certainly competitive. Lyon turned to Thule as the Captain cleared his throat.

"Commander Aramus, Sergeant Tarkus, well met brothers."

"Well met Captain," replied Tarkus.

"The orks have fled, Captain." Stated Aramus, "we should pursue."

"No, Commander. The orks will be back. It means nothing to attack now. We must strengthen our defenses and prepare for their counter-attack."

"The Codex Astartes demands that we hound a retreating foe." Demanded Aramus. "We dishonor Guilleman should we refuse to follow his teachings."

"The orks are not a retreating foe. They are broken. Attacking them now would be like attacking a cornered dog. If we wish to defeat them with minimal casualties, we will force them onto our killing ground. Guilleman writes of this as well."

"Yes. Of course Captain." Muttered Aramus. To him, minimal casualties meant an unneeded amount of care. The Astartes were about crushing victories and shock and awe. His favorite tactic was a head on assault. Nothing provided more glory and honor than beating your foe head on. He sheathed his power sword. Looking up at Thule, he saw that the Captain was looking past him. He turned, and saw Tarkus with his hand on his ear. The Sergeant was listening intently to the vox; his normally stoic face had a hint of shock and a bit of sadness mixed in it.

He removed his hand and said, "Captain Thule, Commander, I believe you should hear this. It has been repeating for quite a while. He pressed a button and the vox became audible to all.

"Captain Thule, unfortunate news." The voice gravelly and Lyon recognized the tone of Sergeant Cyrus. It continued, "The hamlet has fallen to the orks. I barely made it out with my squad intact. Avitus' squad was overrun. From where I am, my auspex reads three life signs out of eight. I fear Avitus himself may be among the slain. Requesting reinforcement. I can do nothing here."

Silence reigned after the message ended. Thule was frowning. Avitus was one of his most trusted Sergeants. If he was truly dead, it would be a great loss. He said to the group of Astartes, "We must respond. Tarkus, attempt to contact Cyrus and inform him help is on the way. The strike force will consist of the Commander, Tarkus' squad and Apothecary Harkon. Mercutio, vox the Armageddon and call in a Thunderhawk gunship for transport."

Aramus nodded and asked, "What will you do Captain?"

"I will return to Argus with the scouts and Mercutio." Thule answered. "The orks will return, and in large numbers, we must be prepared to defend the Capital."

"Understood. We will not fail." declared Aramus, gripping the hilt of his power sword in its sheath.

Lyon and Harkon stood on the ridge, watching for the Thunderhawk. The rest of the strike force was waiting below. Some time had passed and Thule and the others had already returned to Argus using the remaining tunnel.

"You are a fierce fighter Apothecary." Said Lyon.

Harkon laughed, the vox grille distorting the normally pleasant sound to a grating rumble. "And you are a strong one as well. You are quite accurate with that bolter. I prefer to be up close however."

"So I have seen." Stated Lyon.

"Ahh," exclaimed Harkon, "where is your comrade Augustine?"

"With Sergeant Thaddeus," replied Lyon, "I have not seen him for some time."

"No doubt he is deep in combat like us. The both of you are Sergeant material. Thule is lucky to have you."

"The God-Emperor has called, and we were there to answer."

"Indeed. He and the Unknown Primarch."

Their conversation was cut off as they saw the Thunderhawk in the distance. The red craft was dropping low to land in the valley. When it had landed, the squad boarded through the front entrance and strapped in. With a lurch, the bird was airborne and headed to their next combat.

Aramus thought of the orks to kill and victory to come. Nikephoros thought of Sergeant Cyrus, the man who had taught him much. Harkon thought of the dead, and the saddening but necessary act of the progenoid gland extraction. He looked down at his reductor on his right arm, hoping he would not have to use it many more times. Sergeant Tarkus thought of duty, to the Emperor and the Chapter. Ocella Lyon thought of his future. This was his first campaign as a Space Marine, what would the future hold for him and his brothers?

Author's Note: And here is our first glimpse of our Commander. I've taken some liberty in constructing his personality, but my basis is the multiplayer quotes from Dawn of War II and Chaos Rising. He is very proud and verbose. He prides honor. Anyway, with any of the other characters, its up to you guys to make sure they stay within their bounds. Don't hesitate to tell me if you think I screwed a character's personality. As always, constructive reviews are appreciated.