Starport, near Lark's Crossing
Agria, Terran Dominion,
June 19, 988.M41
The Imperial Hawk called 'Two' watched his way of life end.
As far as endings go, it wasn't particularly impressive. A more ignorant individual might even call it routine - Two knew better.
A Mordian Guardsman was being sealed into Terran CMC armor.
The Guardsman took several clumsy steps, hesitantly reaching his hands outward. His hands lost inside the "arm" of the suit, the Mordian had to translate his own hand movement into the massive gauntlets. Still unsteady, the Imperial slowly took hold of a rifle held out to him. The man-sized Impaler would have been a squad support gun without the armor, but the CMC-assisted Mordian could wield it like a lasgun.
A true-blue Imperial was using non-STC xenotechnology. A Guardsman was holding enough firepower and armor to possibly threaten a Marine. A loyal Mordian was cooperating with possible techno-heretics.
Despite his near-automatic revulsion, Two laughed quietly inside his helm. Well, this should be different.
Tertiary landing bay, battleship Armageddon
High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion
June 19, M988.441
Sergeant Mathias was tired. Sergeant Mathias was worn-out. Sergeant Mathias had been thrown through the Warp, fought slaves, been (barely) pardoned by a Commisssar several times, and had assaulted and cleared a grand cruiser. Sergeant Mathias wanted nothing more than to choke down a ration bar and collapse in his rack for ten hours.
Yet when Sergeant Mathias landed on the Armageddon again after clearing the disturbingly empty Implacable, he mentally kissed his rack goodbye and got back to sergeant-work. Something had gotten the old behemoth stirred up; small knots of crewmen were clustered around the holo-players in the landing bay, arguing and yelling. Checking his flanks, Mathias could already see a fistfight breaking out between two bluebellies on his left, and a Guardsman with his right hand disturbingly held in his pocket - ganger, possibly. Hand in his pocket like that, in a situation like this? He's got a weapon, shiv or laspistol most likely.
The entire crew seemed to be standing around with their asses hanging out, and if there was one thing that Mathias did well - "HEY!" Grabbing a pistol-sized autogun that he'd "borrowed" years ago for emergencies, Mathias emptied an extended clip into the ceiling. Veterans ducked for cover as the sound of ricochets pattered around the room. Several of them drew weapons, before quickly hiding them at the sight of the Lady-Commissar of the fleet exiting the Shark assault boat. Mathias deliberately ignored them, giving his Level One Glare of Doom around the bay while continuing in his best Sergeant Voice:
"You SCUM-SUCKING MAGGOTS! Anyone care to explain why no one's doing the Emperor's work today?"
A naval rating, one hand clutched around an Imperial icon, dared to speak up: "Heresy-"
Mathias rounded on the unfortunate man: "HERESY? That's for the priests to decide!" The sergeant flinched internally, realizing that he was usurping the Commissar's job. Oh well, too late to back out now. "You think that you know better than the priests?"
Withering under the sergeant's gaze, the rating squirmed uncomfortably: "N-no-"
"Good! The Mentors have a Chaplain around here, and if any of you pukes wants to tell him about heresy then I know he'd love to ask you about it!" As Mathias expected, the mere mention of a Space Marine Chaplain shut the crowd up. Whispers and muted conversations broke out, and Mathias knew that he'd only slowed the real problem down slightly, but he gave himself a mental slap on the back. As long as they're working, they're not rioting. Here's hoping it lasts.
If there was one thing that Sergeant Mathias did well, it was administering a good ass-chewing. Right now, the entire crew seemed to need it.
...
"Good work, sergeant."
"Thank you, ma'am." Mathias was sweating inside; he had learned from long experience to never trust praise from a Commissar.
Reinholdt, however, simply gazed around them at the rapidly-emptying landing bay. "Sergeant, can you tell me what in His Name is going on?"
"Wish I knew myself, ma'am. I think you should get to the bridge soon, though."
The Commissar merely cocked an eyebrow, waiting for Mathias to continue.
"Um, Lady-Commissar, if the scuttlebutt is true then there's heresy or treason going on. Fleet, Guard, Mechanicus - then they'll all want to know what position the Commissars will be taking."
Reinholdt grimaced. "And I speak for the Commissars," she muttered, almost to herself. She paused, before grabbing her red Commissar sash and handing it to the sergeant. "Mathias, take your men and deal with the lower-decks problems. Restore order, no matter what. You have my authority in this matter."
Sergeant Mathias handled the Lady-Commissar's symbol of authority with more care than he would give to a leaking plasma cannon. "Ma'am?" The Lady-Commissar in question, however, was already sprinting towards an exit.
"Well, shit."
Cobra destroyer Compensating For Something
High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion
June 19, M988.41
Nicodemus felt exposed without his armor. He agreed with Governor-General Kalj's suggestion: since the local humans were used to powered armor, an unarmored Space Marine would likely be more intimidating than another human encased in overlarge armor. Still, the Marine hadn't packed for diplomacy (in fact, he hadn't really packed, either), so Captain Nicodemus of the Mentors Legion was somewhat apprehensive about conducting a diplomatic First Contact mission in the Marine equivalent of a bathrobe. He cleared his thoughts and reached for his handheld vox: enough worrying about that - not when there's plenty of other things to worry about.
"Sergeant, tell me the situation aboard the fleet."
The ever-loyal Sergeant Cato responded quickly: "Complicated, sir."
"Complicated?"
"Actually, scratch that. It left 'complicated' behind several hours ago and has reached 'clusterfrak' status. Any more of this and I'm requesting orbital support."
Nicodemus suppressed a grin. "Sergeant, we are the orbital support."
"Well, that's good to hear, my lord. I'd hate for things to go more pear-shaped than they already have." Cato got to business: "My lord, the fleet's as confused as a Khornate berserker in the Land of Peace and Happiness. They've seen a holo of Space Marines working alongside non-Imperial humans, and that's confused the piss out of them."
The Captain frowned. "And how do they know that the humans are non-Imperial? Are communications that bad fleetwide right now?"
"Worse than that, my lord. No comm security, and emissions control is a terrible joke. The fleet captains prioritized battle-readiness above anything else, and fleet security took the short straw. As for why they know, the Governor-General sent out a fleetwide communique in the clear, describing what his pet psykers had found. Nearly everything with a vox picked up the broadcast."
The Marine glared over at Governor-General Kalj, who was looking nearly serene in his ceremonial armor as they waited for these..."Terrans" to show up. He knew, the bastard! Nicodemus knew that Kalj was a staunch progressive, but hadn't realized how far the man was willing to go. "Sergeant, I'm assuming that suppressing the rumor is impossible by now?"
Cato gave a short laugh. "My lord, the only thing faster than the speed of light is the speed of gossip. By now, the cargo hauler servitors are probably discussing this. If the fleet commanders spin this against the Imperial Hawks and implicate them as sympathizers, though, we could be caught in the feeding frenzy."
Nicodemus understood his veteran sergeant's worries. If the fleet commanders unified and persecuted the Imperial Hawks for cooperating with heretics, the Mentors would be forced to defend their fellow Astartes. It would be the Badab War all over again - loyal Astartes against the Imperium. The Captain snarled as he realized how the Marines been outmaneuvered by Kalj. "These Terrans had damn well better not be heretics, then." For better or worse, we're stuck with the Guard and with these Terrans.
Cobra destroyer Compensating For Something
High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion
June 19, M988.41
The first formal meeting between Terran and Imperial leaders was a subdued affair, to say the least. One Terran dropship, loaded to the gills with Marines from Raynor's Raiders, met at an unofficial "halfway point" between the Imperial fleet and the sole Terran battlecruiser. A small Imperial Cobra destroyer, 'only' 2km from stem to stern, provided the agreed-upon meeting ground. Following a small craft into an interior landing bay, Raynor had to fight off a sudden stab of apprehension. Feels like I'm on the edge of an awfully steep cliff here.
Exiting the dropper with several Marines following, Raynor kept his visor open and weapons holstered. No need to start a war because he got a case of the jitters, after all. With a fireteam of his Marines standing guard behind him, Raynor watched as a small delegation approached the cooling dropship. The leading man was dressed in obviously ceremonial armor, with a subordinate carrying a massive feathered helm and several lightly-armored soldiers marching behind. Definitely a ground-pounder - a veteran, too. The man's array of scars, his wary behavior, and the state of his weapons (well-used, scratches along the sides, scorch marks near the muzzles) undermined any humor that the Raiders might have felt towards his ridiculous getup.
Stepping forward, Jim Raynor was interested to see the man's reaction to his armor. His eyes showed - fear? - at Raynor's skeleton-painted black armor, but looked almost covetous at the fireteam's CMC gear. Raynor shook off his apprehension, and extended his gauntlet for a handshake. The newcomer extended his unarmored hand without hesitation, even though an attendant held his own gauntlets nearby. Jim's opinion of the man rose again, as his steel-crusher 'hands' delicately shook the veteran's human-normal hands. He's short for a general. Kind of-
The next figure was...oh dear God what is that thing? Raynor's perception was shot down in flames by the next newcomer approaching him. Wearing a simple belted robe, and flanked by two power armored figures behind him, the "man" was over eight feet tall and built like the love child of a Siege Tank and a T-rex. The figures on either side of the 'monster' were similarly strange: one held a staff with electricity arcing over it, while the other had black armor similar to Raynor's own gear.
A now-familiar voice intruded into Raynor's thoughts. Greetings, human. Take us to your leader.
Raynor 'thought' back: I am the leader, bitch.
Manners, manners! Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Librarian Marcellus - with me are Captain Nicodemus and Chaplain Theodorus.
Jim was still annoyed. Well, "us's," what the hell are you doing here?
Funny; I was about to ask you the same thing.
...
The debate was strange for both sides: with only psykers able to take part, the normal humans were reduced to glaring at each other. This lasted until one of the Terran Marines realized that an asshole from 2nd Squad had decided to one-up their long-running team rivalry, and put itching powder in his armor. The sight of a 'nobleman' scratching himself furiously proved too much for some of the Imperial Guardsmen, which set off a round of laughter around the small landing bay.
Although the soldiers came from radically different universes, they were all veterans, and with the approval of their respective commanders they began to mingle. Impalers swapped hands with lasguns, the Guardsmen staggering under the CMC-sized weapons while the Terran marines struggled to not crush the human-scale guns. The itching Terran performed a quick-release on his armor, the pieces clunking to the floor as Guardsmen clustered around. Seeing the Imperials' obvious interest in CMC armor, the formerly-itching Terran began to slowly suit himself back up in CMC armor, with braver Guardsmen daring themselves to handle the blasphemous machinery.
Watching the mingling crowd, Nicodemus felt true fear for the first time in a half-century. What will happen to us? What will happen to Imperials in this universe? The Marine was shaken by the easy camaraderie that the Guardsmen showed with these 'Terrans,' and remembered that he had to support this techno-heresy if he wanted to keep the Astartes intact. The Imperium did not forgive treachery or heresy, even from the Emperor's favored sons: either the Terrans were not heretics, or the Imperial Hawks were. Even though Kalj's personal Guardsmen had obviously picked up his heretical habits and even though other Guardsmen might resist this lure, some Imperials would eventually follow their example. What will happen in the fleet, then?
...
Taking a short break from the psychic negotiations, Raynor watched Faoud strip-down to get the itching powder out of his suit. Raynor reminded himself to have a 'chat' with both squads; things had turned out alright today, but if that shit had happened in battle - not good at all. Better fix that rivalry 'fore it gets worse. Turning away from the Imperials and the crowd of soldiers, Raynor opened a private channel with Matt Horner, commander of the Hyperion.
"Matt, make sure the bar's got a handle of the good stuff tonight. I plan to get mighty hammered once this's all sorted out."
"Sir?"
Raynor reconsidered. I've been dry for half a month now, might as well keep it that way. "Nevermind. Listen, these people say they've called off their fighters. Is that true?"
"Yessir. Their bombers - fighters, I mean - turned away before we started shooting."
Raynor let out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Damn good. Let's hope it stays that way. Get everyone down to the Lark's Crossing Starport - we'll need the place to land our troops."
"Sir? You mean, we're holding here?"
"Matt, these people have a real hatred for the bugs. They call 'em Tyranids for some reason, but they've got some score to settle with the Zerg and I, for one, don't plan on getting in their way. 'Sides, if they're busy shooting up the bugs, that means one more habitable world that ain't getting munched by Kerrigan."
Matt paused. "Yessir, but this doesn't change the plan too much, right?"
Raynor shook his head slowly. "Matt, this changes everything."
Admiral's quarters, Armageddon
High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion
June 19, 988.M41
The Admiral watched the holovid mutely, disbelief warring with rage across his face. The chief priests from the old Sector Fleet stood by the commander, each one as incandescent as him. Imperial Hawks? Using heretical weapons, working to save non-Imperials? These people had to be contained. Had to be kept away from anyone who was still loyal. If even Space Marines could be corrupted by these...Terrans, then no normal human was safe.
Watching the holovid, Reinholdt's statement summed up both their thoughts:
"Heresy."
End Part One
And that wraps up the first part of this fic! I want to thank my readers, especially anyone who's left a review. My beta reader got too busy to help, so I'm relying on reviews and criticism to get perspective on the story. Part 2 is mostly planned out, and although the first chapter will take a bit, I should have it out sometime in March. Until then, have fun and good luck!
