Chapter 15
(A/N: On the one hand: more content! On the other: Forgive me if I misportrayed the Iron Hands)
September 2519
UI/RF Installation: Freedom's Refuge
Omega-Theta system
Outer Colonies
UEG Space
Sergeant Gaius Iulius had been named the on-site commander for this mission. There weren't any lieutenants as he was being named as a possible promotion to Veteran Sergeant. Not that he didn't care, it was that he preferred being a squad leader after so many strange centuries. Besides, the very squad he fought with was roughly the same squad that he had fought in before the traitorous actions of the Warmaster. Bastard sack of shite. To think he had been named Warmaster after the Triumph at Ullanor! Unbelievable! Should've been Gulliman or Dorn! Sanguinius, for Terra's sake, was better! Then again, Horus had been the Emperor's favored son (though rumor had it that Sanguinius was close to the Emperor's mind as well) and he tore not just his father's heart out but everyone else's as well! Fugging mad bastard. That, and technically speaking, well... He almost stopped to think of it all as he turned to his remaining brothers: Crassus, Scipio, Marius, Nero, Augustus, Vespasian, Minervo, and of course: the two men he had left to take care of the prisoners: the 'Bad-Mouth' Twins he liked to call them. That or the 'Smart-Arse' twins he joked to other Sergeants. Though he was harsh with them, he couldn't deny that they were much needed comic relief in remaining/stranded Legionnes Astartes.
Out of the 250,000 Ultramarines of the XIII Legion: Only the equivalent of six companies from the Tenth, First, Third, Fourth, Eight, and Ninth Chapters were all here. It was very odd though. Those same Chapters had formerly been... He shook his head. The past was the past. He had been nothing more than a newly formed line trooper back then. Fresh off of the now-dead battlefields of the Solar System. Horus had been found back then... Traitorous...fucking...Horus.
They advanced in usual Ultramarines-style: use Gulliman's tactics when clearing rooms and hallways. The so-called 'Armor-Piercing' rounds that the enemy had been using merely bounced off of their armor... if they were ever fired. The hallways were filled with nothing but the hellish cacophony of war: boltguns firing in brief bursts, heads and body parts exploding in a gory manner, painting the walls red with wet viscera. A truly evil task... but one suited for warriors. He had remembered hearing how the Crusade was quite possibly near its end. After reuniting all of the lost colonies of Man, what then? What was left for warriors in peace-time? Garrison-duty was an utter 'no' for most Legions save the Iron Warriors, Imperial Fists, and of course: the Ultramarines. The problem was: the Iron Warriors, one had to admit privately, had done more than their fair share of garrison duty. He could possibly see why Perturabo had rebelled. Then again, he wasn't a fugging Primarch… although-
He shook his head, grunting. No. He was done thinking about those days. The Second Legion was gone. Over and done with. Disbanded and absorbed into the XIII Legion. He fired a little more aggressively than he should've while his squad advanced to the entrance to the former administration center, no believed to be the rebel command center.
He had planned this with Captain Leonidas, the overall force-commander for Astartes strikes and operations in United Earth Government Space... also the- He blinked, nearly dropping his boltgun. Damn it! What was wrong with him today?! Why did he keep thinking about it?!
"You alright, sir?" Scipio asked, curious as bullets pinged off his helmet, only to be answered with a boltgun's roar.
"No, trooper. I'm not alright." Iulius initially confessed on the squad channel. "I'm dealing with misguided, upstart children on a piss-poor excuse for a redoubt! The Imperial Fists are most likely complaining about the architecture by now!" The Ultramarines Sergeant deflected, earning a laugh from his squad as they advanced, obliterating all resistance. It wouldn't be long now.
XXX
'Dorn's words wouldn't even be wasted on such a miserable place', Sargent Wihlhelm Helsbuhrg thought to himself. It was, in essence, somewhat be true. This place was vastly inferior compared to the Phalanx. This piss-poor excuse for a 'redoubt' much less a 'base' was nothing more than a mere hideaway for pirates pretending to be rebels! He didn't know what was worse: his (possible) ancestors fighting (much less worth the notion of possibly even being related to) these shit-mockeries of human beings, or the fact that such shitty things existed in the first place! He scoffed, a remnant of his old Jerman honor still surviving. He paused. Damn... he hadn't thought about home in a long time. Then again, his family disowned him, their private disloyalty to the Emperor finally being rewarded on a brutal retaliation after it was discovered they had been involved in anti-Imperial activities... after so conveniently surrendering to the old Thunder Warriors. By then, he had been fighting in the Great Crusade for seventy years. Conniving bastards... almost like Horus.
"They fight well, but their fortifications are incredibly... lax." Trooper Auhgsbuhrg commented as he fired on a rebel aiming some kind of poor excuse for a projectile-based machine gun... with three-linked rotating barrels no less, at them. Said rebel lost his head and the idiot had pulled the trigger right as he died with the gun shooting as it went to its resting place by its dead owner's side. Its last rounds of life chopping down two other rebels whom now screamed for 'medics' or 'Mommas' or something like that. Unbelievable. And the Emperor sent them to fight this lot?
The Space Wolves, at the very least a loyal pack of dogs, were enjoying this. As for Helsbuhrg and his men? No. This was a poorly defended position with nothing but raw manpower. No autocannons, no advanced shields, the blast doors were a joke, there was rust on the walls and pipes, the rock tunnels were narrow and short, yes. But... there was almost no place for Astartes to take cover. That, and the armor plating was thick enough to possibly stop a frag grenade from going off, but that was a M3 grenade. Astartes frag grenades from M31 were a lot more devastating and would send them all into space with a near hope of recovery. The 'recovery' being for the Astartes. No one could give a damn about the rebels. Those that didn't surrender and weren't backstabbers at least.
As the Ultramarines' squad had entered through the recreational area, the Space Wolves squad through the maintenance bay, the Iron Hands' boarding the armory, Hehlsbuhrg's squad had come in through, of all places: the generator room. Thanks to extensive field experience and training in long-distance combat, they had made sure not to damage anything that would destroy life support or power down the station to make things... difficult at least.
Captain Leonidas had been quite clear: take as many prisoners as you can, cleanse the station of any that resist, don't kill any that surrendered (the Space Wolves's sector was an exception), and then get out with the prisoners and leave all signs of carnage (but almost no evidence, save that of a servitor painting the Aquila onto a bulkhead or several) and then leave the system to do more strikes. No wait: the Salamanders,, and Raven Guard squads in other systems were conducting strikes as well. Everyone else was harrassing Xenos, obliterating exploratory fleets that ventured too close to Stranded Imperial borders or exploring and securing those strange constructs elsewhere. He hadn't heard much about them, but the Iron Hands' Stranded Clan and at the very least: one of the Ultramarines' mixed companies had that task. Along with the Raven Guard and a Dark Angels Company. Now, as to the Blood Angels: nothing. That was the kicker. If there was a stranded Blood Angels presence, they were never found. As if they never arrived. Odd. Then again, he had heard rumors of them, what had happened during certain events back before Horus did his treachery, even before Ullanor and the Great Crusade if they were true enough.
If he was human, he would've shuddered. Then again: he felt no fear: only somberness and stern resolve as he and his squad advanced to their objective. All four squads, by now, had taken and captured their objectives like clockwork. Part of the battle plan was to take all outlying sections: then lay a brief siege to the Administration center. Either the rebels' remaining commanders would surrender or die. He didn't care. Well, only a little if they had information.
XXX
Segeant Borin Harekar of the Fourth squad of the Iron Hands 73rd Clan Company, a part of the stranded Iron Hands contingent of the overall Stranded Imperial Legiones Astartes, grunted in anger at the sheer weakness of the entirely biological- impure human rebels they faced... that defended the very electronic heart whose energy-blood ensured that this installation would live along with its worthless inhabitants. These humans were too weak. Too biological... too impure.
His squad slowly moved throughout the armory, ensuring that no stray round wouldn't hit munitions. They had disembarked merely three-point-five-two seconds earlier, their first rounds calculated: slaughtering more than a platoon's worth of heretics, grievously/fatally wounding around a squad or so. Any rebel that came out to fire at expected angles or positions was dealt with in cold, calculating, hated passion. One round each. Any more than that was a sheer waste.
Harekar didn't stop as he recalculated his train of thought. Not even the screams of slaughtered rebels disrupted his thinking. No: the Emperor had clearly spoken: this was a time period in which humanity had went to other worlds earlier than in their home time period and reality. He had studied history quite well. As had the other Iron Hands along with the political and military history of the 'United Earth Government' a somewhat-possible ancestor to the modern Imperium of Man. Also: as an inferior side-note: a strange name for a human nation: 'United Earth Government'... that was more as a term for a political society as opposed to a nation. There was the Colonial Administration which served the Government but... seriously? This was... Hatred fumed through his veins. Hatred for what was occurring and what had occurred along with what would occur.
Though his gene-seed lacked any physical flaws, it was a possibility that his hatred had been passed down from the now-dead Gorgon- whose death still haunted and infuriated his now-orphaned sons. Their gene-father had been murdered by his one-time former brother, a Primarch whom had been the equal to Ferrus, but tore his heart out and murdered Ferrus Manus , decapitating him with one swing in view of both the Emperor's Children and the Iron Hands on Isstvan V along with so many other Legions. So many of their brothers dead. So many bodies... so much blood, so many dead brothers... and so many living heretics. The Emperor's Children, from what he had heard from other Astartes that fought them: were now nothing more than hedonistic sado-masochists. Motherless bastards that should be wiped clean from existence for their betrayal of their former brotherly bond.
His squad marched ever slowly, but ever so with the cold-yet-fiery wrath of orphaned sons that lost their beloved father, their shots a calculation of vengeance. Blood painted the bulkheads, the weapons-lockers, the armor racks, and benches. Screams echoed, dimmed, and then died along with whimpers. To the dying, they gave an adjusted version of the Emperor's Mercy: one stomp to the head. If they fired rounds to the deck below, that would be ill-advised and illogical. Said round would possibly lead to the injury and/or death of brother Iron Hands. Then again: if it was a biological attachment like an arm or a leg: then yes. That needed to be replaced. Their father, Ferrus, had a form of silver that was attached to his arms after he faced a particular beast on Medusa. In his honor, Ferrus's sons had their limbs voluntarily amputated and replaced with cybernetic prosthetics. Unlike these pathetic rebels! So biological... so weak. So pathetic.
Harekar exited the armory once the site was confirmed secure, including the on-site restrooms where several rebels hid and were dispatched. Their blood now painting said restrooms in biological red. With himself as the lead, his second-in-command: Gar Avernii to follow along with the others, rounds dinged off his helm and armor. In cold calculation, he slew ten in several shots with well-placed shots in the intersection: Five rebels to the right corridor, (Two ran away actually in sheer cowardice) and four in the center corridor (Three more dispatched cowards), All within eighteen seconds with Avernii taking five on the left corridor. The third Astartes behind them, Mar Tyrskar, fired at four down the right as the squad made a formation as they exited, firing as accurately as possible at fleeing enemies. One cannot allow heresy against the Emperor, or by extension: ancestors to the glorious Imperium and its Truth, to go unanswered. One must answer with harsh and cold, calculating bolterfire. As their bolterfire died down, Hareskar opened a vox channel to the Ultramarines squad.
"Team Primaris, Team Quatrus: we have secured the armory and are making our way to our objective. Break. Be advised: we will be down-strength by two-thirds." He checked his internal map of the station they were on and found their section. He scanned the passageways.
"Correction: We will not be downstrength. Be advised: rebels are advancing to Team Secundus's sector. Inquisitive: Shall I send one-fifth of my squad to deal with them?" He asked, angered that he may have to lengthen the time. They would be late as they had to be thorough in making sure that no rebel would survive their cold, slow rampage to the rendezvous point. There were four ways to the station's admin center: And each squad would control an entrance way to it. There, they would then assault, if negotiations with the rebel leader would fail. That had been the plan... a very illogical plan. Then again: the traitors would receive justice either by handing them over to the UEG's so-called 'Office of Naval Intelligence' or be turned into servitors. That, or just tossed out the airlock. A boltgun might do as well. The airlock option was somewhat-logical but also somewhat time-consuming. Possibly even a weakness. Handing them over to ONI? Diplomatic, yes. But, also a cause for irritation: Imperial Astartes found them, Imperial Astartes interrogated or executed them. UEG space, but Imperial forces. Then again, UEG space-UEG law. He'd let the decision lie with the on-site commander: Iulius.
Biological fecal waste. He almost forgot, his head bolting upright. Had anybody-A mere nano-second later. No-no. The hangar bay was going to be cleared by the Space Wolves Iron Priest back on the battle barge.
XXX
As soon as the boarding had happened, the Insurrectionists in the hangar bay were at first wondering what was going on... then several had come from the rec-room screaming about murderous giants. The blood of fallen comrades on their still-living bodies was testament to that fact. Around a platoon's worth had chosen to stay behind and guard it. However, there was the fact that some kind of ship was out there that was or was not the source of the boarders. Paralyzed with indecision: a brave-but foolish-few decided to take the fight to these murderous giants... only to be slaughtered by Nordic-looking psychopaths wearing massive suits of powered armor that looked like Medieval-Age plate armor almost. But, the ones in the hangar bay didn't know. At least, not until this was over.
By then, the hangar bay somehow magically opened, thanks to the station's network being hacked from the battle barge's bridge outside. All of the occupants and whatever unsecured craft had been inside was now lost to the void. A few had clung to something before being shot out of the room like arrows after a combination of exiting air pressure and oxygen. All of the rebels died ignoble and unenvious deaths.
Five minutes later, as negotiations were being held, a Thunderhawk flew past the floating bodies that by now were floating through the endless void, their mouths forever in an airless scream... if they still existed as bodies. Once it landed on a pad stable and strong enough for it, the door bays were again closed by the Iron Priest and air pressure was restored. By then, negotiations were thankfully concluded to the Imperials' favor.