Chapter 14
(A/N: Brothers! For too long have I been silent. My old cogitator has failed in its duty and I had to recycle it back to the Omnissiah. Edit: Thank you for the support, Battle-brothers! On the matter of this particular Space Wolf pack: yes, I took the names from the Norse pantheon. Some are recognizable. Others may or may not. Personally, I'm of the opinion that squads should be around eight or ten, possibly twelve people... in terms of Packs and fictional scifi military squads. After all: having five guys in a pack sounds like a bad idea personally. Still let me know how I can improve as I'm using Lexicanum and 40k wiki for aid. Sorry if I'm getting anything wrong, by the way. On the matter of Michael's Legion's tactics, I was thinking of having them being tactically flexible, depending on the situation. His abilities would be used, however. As to whether or not having ODSTs/UNSC Marines as a sort of Imperial Guard, I don't think so, personally, but I could possibly have that in there. Key word: 'possibly'. Still, I'm thinking about having a few ODSTs be recruited in Michael's legion from UNSC space. Spartan IIIs as Space Marines is an option. Another thing I'm considering is making another Lost Primarch story featuring the XI Primarch in another reality. One thing that always irked the heck out of me nowadays is how there was the Scotch-Irish-style Tanith-First-And-Only Imperial Guard regiment... but there are no Scotch-Irish Space Marines-to my knowledge. I might make the story about having the XI Primarch being a sort-of Scotch-Irish in another world. Then again, I'm interested in your thoughts. Enjoy the chapter, guys! In the Emperor's Name!
Edit: Pasted all of my updated chapters concerning Freedom's Refuge into one overall chapter
+++Thought for the Day: Always give more than expected, be it in generosity or in war+++)
September 2519
United Insurrectionist/Resistance Front Asteroid Redoubt: Freedom's Refuge
Omega-Theta System
Outer Colonies
Borders of UEG Space/Uncharted Territory
Freedom's Refuge had originally been nothing more than an asteroid mining colony back in the early 2400s or late 2300s. No one was sure on the dates, and no one really cared for it if one wasn't such a nerd about it. Back then, there had been a boom in early space exploration. However, in recent years, it had somewhat slowed down. Though, there were those that wanted to escape the bounds of familiar territory... if they could get past the Insurrectionist pirates first.
For you see, Freedom's Refuge, and its sister asteroid redoubts in the system were home to the United Insurrectionist/Resistance Front, one of many Insurrectionist groups (as there was no one united Insurrectionist movement that they were all behind due to various infighting and disputes over doctrine and tactics as well as relationships between leaders). Now, there were a few other places and cells outside of Omega-Theta, but the last time anybody had heard from them were rumors that they had been slaughtered like animals by something. Not ONI, some felt, but something else. Something worse.
"I keep telling you, it's got to be those damn Romanovs." Bill Jenkins said, slamming his bottle of Freedom's Refuge moonshine down onto the table. "We haven't heard hide or hair from Tom Rodriguez's group in over five years, Sally Andrews's place in over three months, and last month: Ted Howards's supply ship missed its goddamn deadline!" The former miner-turned-rebel said, counting with his fingers. His graying beard moved with his mouth while he spoke.
"It's like something's hunting us like goddamn tigers!" His voice rose. His compatriots either took swigs from their beers or looked at him like he was crazy.
"Yeah, well: these 'Romanovs' have to be ONI. Who else hunts us down like the goddamn KGB that they are?" A similar middle-aged man said, lifting his beer before drinking it with scarred lips from a knife fight.
"I'd say 'Gestapo'. Gestapo seems more in line with them." Another guy commented, pointing the tip of his bottle toward Jenkins.
"Except the Gestapo only hunted down anyone that wasn't purely German," Jenkins pointed out. "That, and it's old Earth shit." Jenkins added before continuing his rant. "My point is: we need to get out of here soon or we might end up with that damn Romanov symbol on our own goddamn bulkheads!" The old one ranted.
"Enough about 'em. They're an urban myth. A legend." All eyes turned towards a man in his late forties. Like Jenkins, he was graying. And like everyone else, his clothes weren't exactly clean. Well, that's what one got when living out here in the so-called 'sticks'. There were laundry machines, but water had to be fetched from either groups that supported them or by cracking ice asteroids. They had plenty of water, but it was food and ammo that they needed. Merchant ships rarely came their way as that one listening post had been 'mysteriously' silenced. And the supply ship that was sent after them was gone. The frigate that the UNSC sent? Not quite gone as they hadn't want anyone to know about their presence.
"Do 'legends' paint the inside halls our brothers and sisters' ships with their own blood and paint a twin-headed eagle with one eye on the walls with gold paint?" Jenkins asked, remembering the stories he heard.
"I've never heard of ONI do something like that- or the UNSC at-large back when I was still serving in the Navy." The scarred-lip man said in his Russian accent. Or at least, Russian to someone from Earth or familiar with said accent. In reality, he came from a colony with a very Slavic population. Not Reach, though. He wouldn't be caught dead there. Then again, there were some folks that liked to cause trouble. Who didn't? The UNSC had their chance at trying to make things peaceful. Not everyone in the Insurrection was a blood-thirsty terrorist, to be fair.
The old man sighed, remembering his grandfather's tale of how the UNSC committed a massacre with what was supposed to be a peaceful protest in the last century. After that incident, tensions only got worse. After centuries of the government and the corporations making life hell for those whom just wanted an easy-going, hard-working life... how did they feel? How did they like it when civilians on their end started getting bombed in malls when the UNSC had done the same thing on villages? Then again, he sighed. Something strange was going on. He could feel it.
Just then, the intercom speakers in the bar crackled to life. "This is Commander Rourke. All raiding parties: report to your craft for launch. We've got another whale." Their leader said with a grin before the intercom died.
Immediately, the patrons around the bar whooped, kissing their significant others good-bye and headed off to get their gear ready. Jenkins sighed, looking out of the viewport to the vacuum of space. The stars looked back as he thought. Yeah, he was a miner, but he was also smart. Well-kind of. The beer tended to affect his thinking. Ever since that one bombing over New Haven, people that he had known in the overall Insurrection had either wound up disappeared or dead. Victories? Sure. But, after New Haven, it looked as though the UNSC was cracking down. There was an Operation going on since '13 that was going... well... badly. They had victories, but the UNSC? They had nothing on the Romanovs. Nothing. He heard stories from guys out of the system like himself.
Space stations gone silent or were completely destroyed. Whole fleets that were hardened veterans against the UNSC either found as hulking wreckage by their brothers or disappeared, the occasional supply ship found drifting with only blood on the walls and the double-headed eagle. Certain areas of worlds that they had influence on destroyed were like goddamn Hiroshima or worse: New Haven. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his gut.
The old man stood up to go suit up for the oncoming raid when warning klaxons started to blare. The old man looked up in shock, his heart pounding with anxiety. He looked outside the viewport as the women started look around frantically with the few raiders that were about to leave also looking confused. He then looked back outside to the starry void. Something was moving against the stars light. You couldn't see it at first. He leaned close enough so that he could see his own reflection.
Suddenly, something big came flying at him. His eyes widened open before he turned to run. Something crashed through the viewport and the wall of the asteroid, making his body fly into the liquor bar about twenty feet behind him. Glass and bone shattered when his head hit the wall hard. Men and women screamed. He lost all sight of what happened next. If he had lived long enough, he wouldn't have wanted to.
XXX
"We'd better be in the right location this time," Sergeant Gaius Iulius sighed under his breath in a tone so low that he had 'hoped' that none could hear him. For an Astartes, that was practically impossible as he was in a boarding torpedo that just crashed into the 'lower-left-hand' wall of an asteroid a quarter as big as the Imperial Fists' Phalanx.
The torpedo's hatch opened in front of him, revealing themselves to the denizens of the asteroid. Dust from the impact clouded around them. The area was possibly some kind of parlor or tavern for the heretics of this redoubt... if you could call it that. Similar sounds were felt as other boarding torpedoes hit their assigned targets.
In all his years, he'd never seen a much worse place to have a drink and a much worse crowd The bar was completely destroyed somehow. Most likely some poor bastard had gotten too close to the viewport before being launched. He could smell blood in the air along with piss and shit. There was a group of men and women, various ages. Obviously human. Diverse mixtures of skin color and tone. These were some of the rebels harrassing the United Earth Government, a (possible) nation that existed long before the Dark Age of Technology as well as the Imperium? These ruffians that looked more like underhive gangers than anything else? He wanted to shake his head. Despicable. He stepped forward, his armored foot making the ground beneath him shake as his subordinates went alongside him. All of them had their boltguns at the ready, their Mark IV armor online and functioning.
"Your orders, Sergeant?" Trooper Titus Cicero asked as the squad of Astartes came out. By now, a few that were in the entranceway were actually fleeing. The women clutched their possible lovers or each other like frightened rabbits as they shook with fear.
"Do not fire unless fired upon, I see no one a-" Something caught his eye, the tell-tale glint of metal. He aimed his bolt-pistol faster than his would-be assailant and opened fire: the round, as big as a man's head, propelling itself towards its intended target, blasting through flesh and bone as a young man that would've pointlessly shot his armor, possibly scratching it, fell backwards without a head. Women screamed as they saw the carnage, his blood on their clothes and, regrettably, their faces. Fortunately, the round went down the hall somewhere and not into anyone else... for the rebels, at least.
"You've made the impression again, Sergeant." One of his subordinates mused.
"Shut your mouth, Quintus." Iulius snapped on the squad vox channel.
"If you wish to live:" He announced in a language his kind hadn't spoken in a long time. His vox grill made his voice even louder. "Then you will drop your weapons and kneel down. We will search you and then place you under our custody. Does anyone understand?" Iulius asked, looking at the crowd. No one said anything. Then, all of a sudden, the fresh smell of piss hit the air followed by not a few cowardly rebels fleeing for their lives as well. Iulius rolled his eyes under his helmet. Idiots. He had memorized the layout of the asteroid. The section they were heading for, if he was right, was under assault by the Space Wolves. Those poor bastards. As if on cue, the sounds of howling were heard by his augmented hearing. Followed by screams.
By now the crowd was on their knees begging to be spared, degrading themselves and their so-called 'dignity'.
"Cicero, Quintus, search these.." He scoffed. "misguided children and bind them for transport back to the barge. After that: join us." Iulius said, marching forward through the crowd that gazed him in both awe and shock. The other seven members of his squad joined him to deal with their section of the asteroid.
XXXX
As soon as the pack exited the boarding torpedo, all bets were off. They howled wolfish howls, unleashing their canine rage upon their enemies as the Wolves of Fenris that they were. Although, technically speaking, they referred to themselves as the Vylka Fenryka or 'The Rout' However, it had been a few somewhat-lonely centuries since they last laid eyes on Fenris... or the Wolf King for that matter. To their displeasure, they were trapped in this alternate timeline-or-past-or-whatever with their hated rivals (but also fellow Astartes of the Imperium and therefore the Allfather): the Dark Angels of Lion'el Jonson, the Raven Guard of Corvus Corax, Imperial Fists of Rogal Dorn, the Ultramarines of Roboute Gulliman, and lastly: the Iron Hands of the late Ferrus Manus, may he rest in peace. They had heard the stories- to die at the hands of a brother he had loved so much and whom took his heart out and crushed it with an offer of betraying their father? Disgraceful! Fulgrim would pay in blood for that. For now, they had to take care of some whelps that dared to cross their path.
The area that served as their killzone a few seconds before had been one of awe and shock to the human rebels in what was thought to be one of their manufacturing areas or perhaps a maintenance area. None of them was a ironpriest save Mimir back on the waiting strike cruiser orbiting this asteroid.
Bragi One-Eye, one of two Greyhunters amongst a pack of Bloodclaws, fired rounds from his boltgun into the enemy after exiting the boarding torpedo. True to their name as 'The Rout' and as the All-father's executioners, they fought like madmen. One Bloodclaw, Baldur Ghostman, attacked without a word as he cut down two enemy fighters with his chainblade, the fighters screaming in agony as they were cut in two. The warrior's eyes revealed bloodlust and eagerness to prove himself worthy. At his age, who hadn't? Everyone that was a Greyhunter and above had once been a Bloodclaw, eager to prove themselves. Others of Ghostman's pack: Loki Grinskull, Fenrir Bloodhowl, the twins- Magni and Modi Redmane, Freyr Hornhunter, Vali Trollslayer, Ull Fareye, Nari Grinskull (cousin to Loki of the same clan as rare as it was. But then again: there were a lot of rare coincidences and previously-unknown to the larger stranded Vylka Fenryka to those stranded here and far from the Imperium Primaris). Last but not least- Bragi looked to his left before firing to see the one oddball that was looking around... confused as a newborn pup after coming out of its mother. That stupid bastard kept aiming his bolt pistol, then lowering it, trying to decide what to hit first
By stark contrast: Loki was laughing as he used his chain sword to take the literal top off of a female fighter's head, Fenrir actually bit a normal man's throat like an animal as said man's rounds deflected off of his Mark IV armor when he held the stupid rebel by his head. He screamed as his throat became near-dinner. Vali shot another rebel, taking his head off in a gory mess right before the rebel could aim at Baldur, Freyr slashed a man's throat with a half of a pair of adamantium-strengthened antlers he had somehow procured, Ull aimed his own boltpistol and shot dead-center into another rebel taking both heart-and-life in the process, Nari laughed as well as blood washed over his face when he struck another one of the bastards with a chainsword, with Bragi being the idiot whelp that he was!
"For the Allfather's sake, Honir!" Bragi shouted at the youngest Bloodclaw in Fenrisian. "Pick a target and kill it! It's not that fugging difficult!" Bragi roared, pointing a finger at him before using said finger to splatter a rebel's brains across the upper bulkhead with a bolt-round. The sounds of bolter-fire, chainswords, screams, and down-right murder echoed throughout the sort-of bay they found themselves in. Most likely some kind of repair bay if he had to hazard a guess. Still, at least it wasn't a vital place where they could accidentally kill themselves and everyone on this small-arse asteroid! He'd seen the Phalanx before and this near-damnable thing would be nothing but a pebble compared to it. Then again, there'd be an unhappy Iron Priest or ten... or the entire Martian Mechanicum Minor. Ah, fug it! They had plenty of machinery and iron-works to fug with and research!
"If the lad wants to die, he wants to die!" Kvasir told his fellow Grey Hunter as he fired at a similar enemy above them. Bragi sighed as he rolled his eyes under his helmet. He swore to the Allfather and the Wolfking and back that something had gone wrong with Honir's trial. "Honir the Indecisive', 'Honir the Coward'. Well, that last bit wasn't quite true. The lad was eager for battle, aye-but he was more focused on picking which target to take. The problem was that by the time he had done so: someone else would take it or the lad himself would be taken. Honestly!
Bragi huffed as he had always felt that something had gone wrong with that whelp's trial. Just then: a miracle! Though one had to deny such a thing as technically speaking: the Imperial Truth... although that was somewhat fading in light of somewhat-recent events. Boltgun fire was heard to his left as soon as the door to the section they were now massacring was opened. A woman fell over, her left arm now blown off, screaming for aid in Pre-Imperial language. What was it? Englysh? Jerman? Francish? Hispahnic? Ah well. It wouldn't matter. Bragi was about to shoot her in the head when he noticed the hand grenade she had held. While it wouldn't have killed them all, he felt that Honir would've taken the grenade out, had he more accuracy.
Bullets pinged off of his right pauldron. He spun around, firing a burst of rounds into his target, oblitering the head, chest, and both arms of said rebel. The rest of the pack now scattering to take down easily-taken targets. The Grinskull cousins were already on their prey like a mad hound on its prey with his chain-sword. Ull took two more in quick succession near the entrance as well, both of the men too stunned to continue. Freyr charged his newest target with said antlers again, gashing the man's face before stabbing him in the eyes.
The pack had moved within a matter of a minute and a half towards every corner of the maintenance bay, dealing with every non-Astartes as they saw fit. Cowards that hid were found and their lives ended with either a bolt pistol, a stomp, a kick, or a slice from a chainsword. Fighters fared just as much, though they had a wee bit of honor in them to fight. The last of them, a strong-looking bull of a human male, with a leather jacket and an earring whimpered as he saw the corpses of his friends and fellow rebels. He looked at their killers, his comrades' blood painted all over them. Loki chuckled, eyeing the man as did his cousin. Just then, before anyone else could speak, a loud shot rang through the air and the man's head exploded. All eyes turned to Honir with a look of displeasure and annoyance.
"Oh, so now you shoot!" Kvasir scolded him, a spatter of blood covering him. Honir shrugged. His packmates looked at him with disdain. Bragi and Kvasir sighed, looking at each other. Clearly, the lad wasn't cut out for eager combat... keyword 'combat'. He was too damned young to be a Grey Hunter and too damned indecisive. It was like he was more suited to being an equerry or something!
"Dammit, Honir! I was hoping to have first dibs!" Loki yelled, aiming a blood-soaked gauntlet to his now-dead-would-be-prey. Just then, they heard the sound of footsteps in the distance. Most likely more prey. All eyes eyed the door with hungry eyes.
"So, we all fire at the door?" Honir suggested, looking around. They looked at him in thought for just a moment.
Kvasir thought about it as the footsteps drew closer. He shrugged, his graying mane moving as it rested with his shoulders.
"Y'know what? Smartest thing you've done and said all day." Kvasir said, aiming at the door with his boltgun.
"Fug that! I'm dying for some more!" Loki smiled as he readied to run towards it.
"You'll get shot, ya' daft bastard!" Bragi scolded, also aiming at the door.
"Ah, fug it!" Modi said, dismissively. Right as the door opened, the Bloodclaw pack howled, charging at their now-frightened opponents, mere men that thought themselves a match for would-be gods. Kvasir and Bragi howled with them as they charged. To Hel with it all. At least the dumb ones would get weeded out, hopefully. Then again, the Chapter was like an over-arching wolfpack... and a pack was like a family. A murderous, insane, All-father-loving, family. A family now fragmented forever.
XXXX
Commander Jason Rourke, the last known leader of the United Insurrectionist/Resistance Front, stared in horror at the camera footage that showed something beyond his worst nightmare. Below deck (and above), he could hear the sounds of devastating gunfire, the screams of men and women calling for help or pleading for mercy. He suspected (no-he knew) not a few gunshots were those of suicide. He could smell the blood, piss, and shit amongst the recycled air as he stood in his command center, the dying echoes of requests for orders that would never come, pleas for aid that would go unanswered either in the negative or the positive, curses that would go unchallenged from subordinates that would hate him in the darkest and hottest pits of Hell if it existed. Whereas a few minutes before, he had been haughty and overconfident in ordering a small fleet of fast and maneuverable raiding Pelicans and an obsolete frigate plus a few makeshift ones (as well from yachts that he stole and whose crews and passengers he had both murdered and ordered to be murdered) to embark and raid what he thought was some decked out merchant ship. Now, he was the one being raided.
It would seem as if all the sins against humanity that he had committed, all the lives he murdered, all the ships he had destroyed and stolen, the installations he raided and destroyed, the women and children whose lives he had murdered and stolen- all of them were coming back to haunt him and in the end: drag his soul kicking and screaming into the void that he had sent so many bodies into.. or worse.
The redoubt's sensors, before they were taken off-line by a single flight of mysterious fighters, showed the massive thing he had arrogantly called 'whale': a gargantuan monstrosity more strange and terrifying than any UNSC ship he had ever fought against. He had assumed it was nothing more than a tricked out merchant vessel. He had been wrong.
That thing, upon its entrance into the system, faster than his sensors could detect, faster than any defense he could muster: launched two types attacks simultaneously. The first had been some kind of boarding craft, shit that dug into the redoubt's rocky hull and then deposited its demonic payload. The other had been some kind of fighter or bomber screen that took out his sensors and communications array, blinding him electronically save for if he needed to look outside. There had been only one fighter screen. One sole fighter... or what had to be one. He couldn't be sure. It was too fast to be a UNSC Longsword fighter. Too damn fast and precise. The boarding action saw about four craft. Four squads of inhuman bastards slaughtering his people. Four groups of monsters that wore armor like men and yet... not so.
The bar that served as one of the few recreational centers on this station was taken. Almost of the fighters ran with one guy dying before he could fire a shot at one of those... things. The maintenance bay was also taken with its much more resistant fighters being easily killed outright and without any sense of mercy. The hangar bay was an option but the bastards were too quick, too fast, and absolutely worse than anything the UNSC had thrown against him in recent memory. The armory? A squad of those bastards came in, slaughtered all of the fighters as well, but not the unarmed like that second group. The hangar bay was too risky as all access to it by now was cut off The generator room that powered the station had also been taken by another group of them. A four-pronged assault that saw to the end of the remaining UI/RF fleet.
He sat in his chair in what used to be the former mine's administration center, his subordinates looking for a way out or preparing for one last stand by mining the entrances through low-tech means. Their calls for him went unanswered as he contemplated and bemoaned his fate.
He should've seen the signs: all the times that the meetings had been missed by an increasing number of now-dead-or-missing-allies, the rumors and stories, everything. He should've evacuated everyone and run for someplace else, someplace with a strong Insurrectionist presence. It was too late now. He rubbed his face in the darkness. It was too late. He looked down at his sidearm. Better dead by his own hand than at the hands of those monsters.
XXX
"For fuck's sake, boss: say something!" Karl Rodriguez barked as he and Mark Verra jerry-rigged a frag grenade to go off as soon as someone stepped on it. They also put trip-wire mines as well. None of those bastards were getting in without a fight and a scratch to show for it! A loud gunshot echoed behind him. Both men stopped and turned around at it, instinctively producing their side-arms. Both of their faces paled. A Magnum with a smoking barrel lay on the floor with their boss's head pulled back, his brains and the rear part of his skull gone and splattered all of the deck and the bulkhead behind him.
"Jesus Christ," Verra said in horror, his arms hanging simply at the sight.
Rodriguez sighed and rubbed his face. "Fuck," He muttered, realizing he was now in command.