Part 2: Pride
Jecht studied the incoming Imperial Valkyrie from his place behind the blast doors - its left turbine engine billowed a long tail of inky-black smoke and it leaned heavily to one side as it carved a passage through the deluge. It had seen the downed Lander without doubt, standing out on the ground like some mindless leviathan.
Behind the crippled vessel loomed a huge, winged monstrosity, a vision of pure terror that danced and glided through the air with relentless ease, glistening hideously in the downpour.
From above, the sunless sky sparked and crackled with assiduous energy as brooding cloud formations assaulted the air with blinding bolts of fork lightning, each one proceeded by the equally rumbustious crash of thunder. Under the glare, the colossal beast became sporadically visible for a few seconds at a time, its massive, iridescent wings lazily rising and falling to distort the air around it. Beneath, Jecht noticed the swarms of smaller, insect-like creatures that clung to the Harridan's chitinous underside like children afraid to leave the nest.
"They'll never make it," he whispered, watching on as the Valkyrie transport began to initiate a crash landing.
He had heard horror stories of the Tyranids during his short term with the guard, how they used these reptilian Harridans to drop wave after wave of comparatively diminutive Gargoyles into battle - smaller fliers that couldn't sustain the higher altitudes and thermal drafts of planets marked for consumption, A big Nid will always lead you to a hundred smaller bastards, they had said, describing the Tyranid Hyperparasitic tactics. All scarred men from the Cadian 9th, veterans of Fort Carcasson.
The idea of the Tyranids, all devouring aliens from the void beyond the Galaxy's outer limits, had always interested Jecht. Even as far back as he could remember - in his childhood home on Cadia, where his older brothers had scared him to tears with stories of the Genestealers coming at night. How something could be so primal, so savage in its every approach to existence, yet function with a singular intelligence that rivalled any aspect of the workings of humanity, truly fascinated him. Now he had seen them with his own eyes however, the Cadian realised there was nothing beautiful about these creatures. Not like he might expect of the native animals and insects back on his homeworld. The Tyranids were living weaponry, nothing more. They moved from planet to planet, star to star, galaxy to galaxy. Their only purpose was to destroy and consume everything, like some out of control virus - a cancer of the universe.
Jecht snapped away from his thoughts as the platoon began to shift anxiously about him - apparently his view on the unlikely survival of those on board the Valkyrie was fast becoming a shared realisation. Stepping forward from the Imperial line, the newly appointed Sergeant Major Valerie drew his power sword; a gorgeous, ornate weapon, supposedly wrenched free from the dead hands of the Cultist Champion that left him the huge scar across his cheek, "Sixth Platoon with me!" he called aloud, pacing forward out of the relative safety of the Link facility and back into the storm. Back to war.
Suddenly invigorated, Jecht bared his teeth in a silent snarl and unslung his rifle. It dawned on him that it would not do to meet these vile aliens like he had in his nightmare, with pitiful, subdued terror. This was the reality of war and these aliens wouldn't find the name Jechtin Dorn so easily placed on their menu, "For the Emperor!" he cried aloud, striding proudly down the building's access ramp in the wake of his sergeant, a roar of defiance erupting behind and around him.
"Looks like you could use some help there," spoke a crepitating voice from the Vox loud speaker of Private Osmond to the rear. As one, the platoon shifted to the side of the ramp, the concrete below them reverberating with the stomping of huge, four-pronged feet. The Sentinel squadron quickly took up the head of the infantry column, all three machines lurching from side to side with each lunging step onwards. The giant walkers swung massive Auto-Cannons from axles beneath the pilot compartments – their ammunition drums clicking and whirring in mechanical auto-load.
Jecht felt reassured by the 42nd's decision to bring the lumbering scout-support units, especially with the entirety of the Taskforce's heavier armour located with the other Cadians, Mordians and Arbiters several miles away at Hyphereon's southern gate. Their commanding presence could bring stability to any battlefield, each one able to lay down a withering hail of firepower. Every unit would prove invaluable to their chances of survival against the cursed Xenos, he knew all too well.
Around them the plasma fires continued to rage, occasionally scarring the air with massive explosions once they grasped the flammable cargos dotted around the surrounding warehouses. The Tyranid bombardment itself had long since stopped however, allowing the Harridans room to sail down from the hive ships and deliver their own deadly cargo.
Casting a gaze over to the originally intended drop zone, Jecht watched tracer fire scream through the air as hundreds of the dragon-like Harridans wrought devastation upon those still in the open, Well well, our first bit of luck, he thought with a sigh of relief, gazing up at the single monstrosity they were left to contend with as it soared ever closer to the wounded Valkyrie.
Ahead, the transport detached the smoking carcass of its second engine, avoiding the likely inferno that would occur if it tried to land with it still in tow. Now leaning increasingly further to one side, it hummed over the top of the downed Lander, the sole remaining turbine whining loudly under a huge burden.
Descending to within a few feet of the rain soaked tarmac, the bulky ship cut all power, dropping hard onto its armoured belly. Carried forward by the momentum, it skidded furiously towards the approaching sixth platoon and sentinel escort, locked in constant spin. Jecht shot a free hand out to the access ramp's railing, unsure whether the Valkyrie would stop in time to avoid crushing them all. Yet his fears were quickly rebuked as the Transport came to rest some thirty metres down the loading thoroughfare, its exit doors hissing open.
The Cadian squinted hard against the rain - the men jumping hurriedly from the vessel's sides seemed for a split-second to be uniformed in the black and gold trim of 42nd Cadian command. He looked harder, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the iridescent flash of lightning, It couldn't be…
From behind, the vox speaker rose into life once more, albeit this time in the clear-signalled, static-free form of a master-vox transmission, "This is Regimental Command, pattern XL85, requesting immediate assistance from any Imperial unit near Lander thirteen; we are under heavy attack from enemy aircraft. Repeat we are under attack!"
Raising the cross-comm to his mouth, Osmond's reply clearly reflected the platoon's collective amazement, "Sixth platoon here, recommend advance North, we are en route to your location sir!"
Receiving the message, the small group of men looked up, breaking from the relative cover of the Valkyrie towards the advancing sentinels and men. Above, the Harridan descended in anticipation of the kill, its Gargoyle cargo detaching dexterously into the storm. Like leaves caught in the wind, they spiralled menacingly down towards the ground, wings beating furiously against the jet stream
Jecht studied the approaching command squad, still unsure as to how the lone Transport could have made it through orbit. Yet there was no mistaking the stocky figure of Colonel Drezlen, his infamous twin bolt-pistols spitting a hail of shells at the fast approaching aliens as he back peddled away. Behind him came the lone representative of the commissariat amongst the 42nd, Drathé Caevinor, his sonorous tone audible above even the resounding din of thunder, "Fear not the alien! It cannot hope to comprehend the foe it marks. Ensure that it pays for such a grievous error!"
As if spurred on by Drathé's words, the Sentinel squadron opened fire, filling the air with the dull, roaring sound of Auto-Cannon shot. Singularly, the large weapons were barely semi-automatic, each shot proceeded by a two to three second pause. Yet when fired in unison they became almost fully automated, a constant stream of thirty-millimetre shells that hurtled towards the Harridan like incandescent beads of flame.
The gargantuan beast screeched in painful defiance, shaking its reptilian head from side to side as the explosive rounds connected across its thick, armoured carapace. All around it, gargoyles caught in the stream simply disintegrated, their inferior chitinous protection imploding under the massive force. In their wake remained naught but the wide arcing scatter of barbed limbs and a misty residue of alien blood-ichor that gently drifted down with the rain.
Forced from its original course, the Harridan backed away, its broad wings beating heavily to fight against the prevailing wind. Fist-sized holes began to appear amongst their leathery membranes as the Sentinels pressed forward to keep within range. Hovering vertically beneath the swirling storm, the Harridan craned its long neck to regard the new threat, its beady eyes flashing crimson against the fork lightning above. Sizing up the new challenge, the giant creature banked left and dropped towards the dock below its wings twisting into a vortex.
Just as the monstrosity appeared close to plunging headfirst into the flaming dock, it twisted itself upright, expanded to its full wingspan and soared fast towards the approaching sentinels. As it surged forward, the now-visible cannons at the tip of each wing flared a momentary luminescent-green, launching two wide, metallic-green crystals at its chosen target. The sentinel walker on the far right of the column stopped fast in its tracks, a dreadful hiss escaping from the pilot's compartment. Across the vox came the man's death throes in clear, horrific detail; an ear-splitting scream that quickly dissipated to a squalid gurgle as explosive crystal neurotoxins audibly boiled his blood.
Jecht paused, staggered by what he had seen. Yet his disgust quickly gave way to fear for his own life as the Harridan tore past a mere twenty or so feet above his head, knocking him and the majority of his platoon to the rain-soaked ground below as the air distorted in the creature's passage.
Undeterred, the remaining brace of Sentinels turned laboriously - tracking the monstrosity as it banked in preparation for another attack, their cannons glowing orange from constant heavy fire.
Rising to their feet, sixth platoon hesitated, a blend of scared and confused faces revealing a general consensus as to how they could possibly defeat such an alien, Perhaps we are doomed.
Ahead, Drezlen's command squad continued their slow retreat to safety as the Gargoyles descended unchallenged towards them. One of the colonel's staff shouldered his lasgun, struggling desperately with a long, black staff attached to his back. Finally managing to untie the gold trimmed tassels, he waved the banner free, a flash of glorious black and silver that shimmered magnificently in the rain.
It was the 42nd's own Regimental Standard, Jecht could see – marked with the inscriptions of every single Regimental victory and battle honour, sown like intricate runes across the gorgeous velvet cloth. My colours… he thought, any previous fear of the Tyranids fading away on the storm.
Gritting his teeth the Cadian gripped his lasgun, rage etched fast across his features. It was about pride now. Pride these monsters could never know or understand. They were mere insects, devoid of meaning or purpose. Their Hive Mind shall this day see the price of its malevolence!
The booming voice of Sergeant Valerie rose up through the air once more, "Forward! For Cadia! For the 42nd and victory eternal in his name!" The platoon's roaring challenge shook the very concrete below, angry clouds above matching in time with the equally explosive din of thunder. They were carried forwards on waves of their own palpable bloodlust, crimson streaks of lasfire crackling and searing the air before them. The gargoyles died in droves, alien features melting under the intense, triboluminescent heat of the lasrifles as the platoon rallied around their Colonel and Standard.
Mek brought his incinerator to bear on the sky, sending a cone of burning promethium into the storm; guiding the special weapon operators from other squads to follow suit. Before long the air burned with the liquid fire of flamers, the roar of melta-guns and the explosive hiss of plasma. Alien bodies shrieked and tumbled out of flight, aflame or half-melted - each descent marked with the final, sickening pop of chitinous exoskeletons shattering audibly on impact.
Stunned by the sudden degree of fight in their newly amassed prey, the Gargoyles hovered in the air, their multitudinous wings humming furiously.
Like some deformed flock of birds they spiralled menacingly through the updrafts, studying the wide human formation below, quite impervious to the scores of their own dead dropping hard out of the setting sky. Apparently reaching some collective decision, they opened fire, their hideous weapons recoiling amid a stomach-turning squelch - showering the platoon below with dozens of small, maggot-like creatures, each one no longer than a man's finger. Human screams echoed through the storm as the alien grubs found their targets, quickly tearing through anything and everything with which they made contact.
Jecht gasped as something connected with his shoulder guard. Looking left, he watched with consummate horror as a glistening flesh-borer started to chew its way through the burly armour plating, its sickly, throbbing yellow form secreting freshly dissolved plasteel in its wake. Not wanting to see the effect when it reached his skin, he hastily tore the guard from his shoulder and hurled it to the floor just as the grub broke through to the opposite side. Sneering, he crushed the hideous creature underfoot, disgusted by the alien's choice of weaponry.
From out of nowhere, Jecht was nearly bowled over by the staggering form of private Amst, an old friend from second squad. The dark skinned man collapsed forward, violently throwing up blackened blood as the borer inside him happily devoured his chest cavity. His face as pale as wax, Jecht strained to turn away from the man's death spasms, Emperor bring him peace, came the age old epitaph in his mind, and grant unto him salvation, 'neath the tilt of your golden throne.
Spinning back to the combat, fully enraged, Jecht took to one knee and brought his rifle up to bear. Scanning the sky through his sight, he searched for a target, ignoring the chaotic distractions from all around. Bringing one of the Gargoyles into view he promptly fired on instinct and watched as the bright laser seared straight through the alien's left wing. The creature plummeted shrieking towards the ground, its remaining wing still fluttering uselessly. Without even waiting for impact, the Guardsman had already taken aim at the next vile creature, a perfect shot turning its head to coloured steam.
Even before joining the guard Jecht could shoot, his aim perfected through countless hunting trips with his father and brothers back on Cadia. His skills had seen him flying through the 'gun-baby' Whiteshield conscripts and into the ranks of third company, a place usually reserved for second or third year veterans.
He had tested his aim against Orks, Chaos Rebels and even the mysterious Eldar over the last six months, yet never had he taken aim at the utterly alien Tyranid horrors before. Above all else, he was quite relieved to see that they came apart under a good hit like any other foe of the Imperium.
The Gargoyles, increasingly reminded of their dwindling numbers in the sky, began to drop into close quarters. They hovered ominously above the heads of the guardsmen, their cruel talons slashing at those who came to close whilst flesh-borers launched salvo after salvo live ammunition at point blank range.
The voice of Colonel Drezlen became audible above the carnage, strengthening the resolve of those troops around him as he pumped auto-reactive rounds into any Gargoyle that passed by, "Men of the 42nd! Victory is upon us, do not despair to fight these aliens with bayonet and sword, they have revealed their weakness to us and we shall crush them for it in turn!"
Jecht watched as one of the monstrosities rose away from the melee, a flailing guardsman held tight in its talons. It made off into the sky, apparently pleased with its prized catch, only to be vaporised by a double blast of plasma mere moments later. The man screamed as he was released some thirty feet from the ground - screams that were in turn cut short as he plummeted headfirst through the roof of one of the nearby warehouses.
At last he saw Sergeant Valerie and Commissar Drathé trisect the last of the foul creatures, their powersword and chainsword crossing from either side of it in a simultaneous, rending blow, coating both men in a thick film of pink-hued ichor.
Victory! the word swam magnificently through his mind. Yet at what cost had it come?
In the distance, the lone Harridan twisted and weaved above the warehouses as the two remaining sentinels continued their Auto-Cannon assault. The same pink blood-ichor was now visible on the larger beast, frothing around several holes in its chitinous hide where the shot had pierced armour. Buckling the rain soaked air with one final screech of alien defiance, it broke from the attack, inclining its airborne passage towards the downed Valkyrie where the two pilots remained in the relative safety of the armoured cockpit. Dropping to almost ground level, the gargantuan flier rested its broad talons across the top of the two tonne transport, effortlessly plucking it from its place on the thoroughfare and carrying it off into the storm. The pilots' silent screams and their futile efforts to escape the vessel cast a foul shadow over the recent victory as the platoon watched the craft being towed away. Yet the two enduring Sentinels behind appeared not as keen to let the dragon-like monstrosity escape so easily, especially after slaying their comrade in the third suit. Taking long strides forward to keep in range, the towering brace of scout-walkers opened fire once more, albeit this time on the Imperial ship tight in the creature's grasp.
After a few seconds under the weapons' dreadful ferocity, the Valkyrie's remaining engine exploded violently, engulfing the Harridan in a huge, churning fireball.
Dropping the vessel into the surging waves below, the beast swung awkwardly from side to side, blinded by the intense flames that consumed it. Screeching vociferously in its agony, the creature dropped into another tight, spinning vortex, clearly attempting to douse the flames, No amount of dancing's going to shake a tank full of burning promethium my alien friend, Jecht thought with a wry smile - watching as the creature tried to right itself, only to find its wing membranes had already burnt to nothing.
With a final, moaning wail, the Harridan plunged haplessly into the grey-brown ocean, sending a massive plume of saltwater high into the air. An inevitable cheer erupted from the platoon. Man had defeated the alien, for now.
Gazing up at the thundering sky above, Jecht's grinning, intrepid embrace of victory briskly faded back to the usual, overwhelming sensation of fear that had become increasingly familiar with this Emperor-damned world.
Overhead, the clouds faded from grey, to dark grey and then to an almost inky black as the light above them disappeared. They're coming.