A/N: It's been a rather challenging time since my last update, to say the least. I actually had this chapter about 80% written before everything went crazy, and put some thought into rewriting the entire next few chapters for reasons that'll be clear by the end. I decided against it in the end, so strap yourselves in, because these next few chapters will be a doozy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Warhammer 40k or Code Geass. Any resemblance to real-world people or events is coincidental.
Chapter Forty-One: Operation Typhoon
Olympica Fossica
0130 Hours, Operation Typhoon D-Day Plus One
Despite the hour, the battlefield around Olympica Fossica could only be described as "bright." Chaos bombers filled the skies with chaff and flares to blind the remaining Mechanicum air-search augurs and the interceptors that scrambled to meet them. Each individual pinprick of light burned for mere seconds, but they were launched by the hundreds and lit up the entire sky through sheer volume. Illumination shells arced through the air, lighting the way for the incoming hordes while blinding the defenders' night vision. A towering inferno raged a mere half-kilometer from the defenders' forward trenches as allied strike fighters and artillery batteries dropped countless tonnes of incendiaries in a desperate attempt to stem the enemy advance. The flames ensured that the battlefield never grew darker than a dull glow between the bursts of near-blinding brightness.
Squadrons of Lightning Strikes roared overhead, afterburners fully opened, as they scrambled to meet the latest Chaos attack. Hellfury missiles rained down upon the masses of slave-soldiers at the front of the horde, bringing the armored vehicles and shock troops behind them to a screeching halt. Sheer momentum threw thousands more into the raging inferno. The lucky ones were flash-cooked, while the unlucky ones emerged from the flames shrieking in agony as they clawed at their clothing and flesh in a futile attempt to put out the flames. The hordes of burning cultists, blinded by pain, ran towards friend and enemy alike until they expired. Mechanicum artillery adjusted their aim to bracket the Chaos forces, cutting off their means of escape as the Lightning Strikes doubled back to strafe the survivors with Hellstrike missiles and lascannons. Many of the Chaos mechanized units ran over the infantry behind them in a desperate attempt to escape, while some of the more heavily-armored—or more foolhardy—buttoned down their hatches and braved the inferno. The ones that made it past were greeted with a barrage of krak missiles and lascannon fire from the trenches.
The Lightning Strikes flew low and fast, frustrating both augur and heat-see scans and thus the bulk of the enemy's air-defense capabilities. Where the Chaos gunners lacked in accuracy, however, they more than compensated with sheer volume of fire. The Mechanicum strike squadrons were dying a slow death of a thousand cuts: losses were steadily mounting, and from the survivors of each sortie a combination of battle damage and lack of spare parts claimed their toll. With the distant guns also falling silent one by one as they exhausted their incendiary shells, the flaming barrier began slowly dying out. The incoming attack wave, still remarkably intact despite the Mechanicum's vicious mauling, reacted as one entity: the hordes of slave-soldiers flowed through where the flames had died down entirely, dying in droves as automatic weapons fire ripped through their tightly-packed ranks.
The very ground shook as a fresh wave of Chaos troops entered the fray, and several long seconds passed before it became apparent that the vibrations came from a different source. All local Mechanicum communications were drowned out by Titan attack alarms as the remaining strike squadrons broke off to harass the massive war machines. An assault line of Warlords fearlessly strode across the battlefield, swatting the Mechanicum aircraft out of the sky with their auxiliary armaments as their carapace guns opened fire at ranges only the super-heavy tanks of Eta-Gamma Five could hope to match. One of the Titans briefly stumbled as a Volcano cannon beam slammed into its void shields, the arcane barriers flaring brightly enough to light up the battlefield for kilometers around but ultimately holding. The Warlords' arm-mounted weaponry joined in on the next volley, the barrage depleting the hastily-erected void shields that protected the Mechanicum trenches by an alarming amount.
The few reports to reach Olympus Mons all told of collapsing lines and soaring casualties.
If he still had a mouth, the Fabricator-General may have smiled in satisfaction. Operation Typhoon could now begin in earnest.
Mechanicum Glider Mu-Kappa One-Seven
Final Approach to Syria Planum
Mu-Kappa One-Seven was built to unfathomably-ancient specifications, retrieved from a forgotten corner of the Ikaruga's data-archives. The senior Tech-Priests sent to retrieve such a holy relic claimed to be above all emotion; the Black Knights sent to escort them claimed that the members of the Mechanicum delegation all looked clearly gobsmacked when they revealed the pattern dated back to the third millennium. The materials originally used no longer existed in the galaxy, so the schematics instead contained all the information required to substitute them with lightweight composites. While allied forces laid siege to Argyre Planitia, Mu-Kappa One-Seven and thousands more like it were manufactured in secret at Olympus Mons. As nearly two million Skitarii stormed the Chaos positions at Tractus Catena and Olympica Fossica, the gliders were quietly loaded up and towed into the air by Mechanicum cargo drones.
Nearly two thousand gliders were dispatched towards Syria Planum, flying high above the clouds to evade ground spotters and small-arms fire. Radiation-absorbent paint and a lack of engines similarly foiled air-search augur and heat-see. Rushed construction and primitive mechanical control systems proved a greater threat to the glider armada than enemy anti-aircraft fire, with dozens either breaking up midair or forced down well before their intended destinations. The formation slipped behind enemy lines under the cover of darkness, its numbers gradually dwindling as gliders broke off to deposit Skitarii at countless strategic pockets across the volcanic plateau. The formation numbered less than one hundred gliders by the time Mu-Kappa One-Seven began its descent.
The thirty Skitarii in Mu-Kappa One-Seven's passenger compartment sat in total silence, eyes forward and weapons at their sides, as the entire aircraft creaked ominously. The wings groaned as the glider's massive flaps extended, and Mu-Kappa One-Seven began its descent. The wind screamed against the glider's outer skin as it plunged towards the ground at a borderline-dangerously-steep angle. Percussive booms echoed outside as the formation left the concealing cloud layer and were promptly greeted by enemy anti-aircraft fire. Shrapnel peppered Mu-Kappa One-Seven, but the glider maintained course even as a neighboring aircraft went down in flames. A second one followed moments later, breaking apart as several autocannon rounds punched through its thin composite skin and sending its passengers—twenty Skitarii and three gun servitors—plunging to their doom. The only acknowledgment from the passengers and crew of Mu-Kappa One-Seven was a brief burst of binary confirming additional casualties.
Shrapnel punched through Mu-Kappa One-Seven's unarmored exterior, flying through the crew compartment before exiting out the opposite side. A particularly large chunk of jagged metal decapitated a Skitarii, though none of her neighbors reacted to the sudden spray of blood and machine oil. The severed head fell to the floor and rolled along the length of the glider, bouncing off the rear of the passenger compartment several times before coming to a stop. Another Skitarii died moments later, his torso shredded by flying shrapnel. The entire glider rocked as explosive rounds tore through its starboard wing, the damaged limb miraculously staying attached for several more moments before ripping away entirely with a tortured squeal. Several Skitarii were tossed from their seats as the glider was thrown into a wild spin for several seconds until the pilots bought the aircraft back under some semblance of control.
Somehow, Mu-Kappa One-Seven's landing gear remained operational, and the skids locked in place with a dull thunk. The glider gingerly set down, bouncing off the ground several times before it found purchase in the Martian soil. The stress snapped the landing gear off as Mu-Kappa One-Seven skidded to a halt, burying its nose in the sand. Twenty-three Skitarii survived the approach and subsequent landing, and the pair closest to the rear of the aircraft hurriedly rose to their feet and hurriedly began unlatching quick-release catches and severing control cables. The aircraft's entire tail section fell away, and the Skitarii stepped over their comrades' rapidly-cooling corpses onto the crimson sands below.
The nineteen surviving gliders of Mu-Kappa One had set down in a roughly circular pattern, providing desperately-needed cover for their passengers. A surprising amount of the unit's fire support had survived the trip and subsequent landing, the whirring and clanking and hissing of multiple gun servitors promptly drowning out the soft hum of a trio of Tauros engines. The deployed Skitarii were drawn from some of the Mechanicum's most elite squads, and their discipline showed as a sniper bullet blew apart an Alpha's braincase. The headless body had not even wobbled before the deceased's squad dropped to the ground, pressing themselves against the closest bit of cover as they laid down a withering hail of fire with their galvanic rifles. They were soon joined by stubber rounds and flechettes, the enemy return fire remaining sporadic and inaccurate as continuous bursts of white noise overwhelmed the cultists' senses.
A breeze passed over the gathered Skitarii, the only warning either side had before the rapidly-closing Chaos response teams were beset by nightmares of metal and sound. The unsettling hum of transonic weapons filled the air, the arcane blades passing through armor with contemptible ease to slice flesh and liquefy organs. A newly-arrived Hellhound spat long streams of burning promethium, coating the ground in flames and inflicting far more damage on the infantry it was nominally supporting than on the attacking Ruststalkers. The Mechanicum commandos steadfastly avoided even approaching the vehicle, and the reason why soon became obvious as the thunderclap of a transuranic arquebus split the air. The high-velocity slug punched through the Hellhound's frontal armor, pulping the crew and breaching the promethium tanks before exiting through the rear. The gel ignited as soon as it touched the air, the resulting blast incinerating the infantry huddled behind the armored vehicle and sending chunks of Hellhound spinning through the air.
The trio of Tauros' rammed through the resulting gap in the encirclement, crushing corpses and promethium-drenched survivors underneath their wheels as their dorsal weaponry mowed down anyone brave or foolish enough to take potshots at them. The Skitarii followed in the dust cloud, their cybernetic augments pushed to the limit to keep pace with the vehicles.
By the time the Chaos survivors recovered their senses, only the furiously-burning hulks of nineteen empty gliders remained.
Necron Tomb Ship Tears of Sastiea
Seventeen Hours Later
Even among the Necron nobility, where some degree of eccentricity had practically become an unspoken job requirement, Nemesor Isetnoclea was considered somewhat odd. Most considered the nodal command network a despised but useful tool, affording Necron commanders a level of coordination that the younger races could only dream of while simultaneously serving as a grim reminder of the time their species had bargained away their very souls. Once the Nemesor's mind was her own again, however, she took to her new body and the remnants of the nodal command network perhaps a little too well. Many would attribute her outlook to a defective biotransference procedure or damage during the Great Sleep, but Isetnoclea insisted she was simply making the best of her current situation. Born sickly even by Necrontyr standards, her talents for naval strategy would have gone undiscovered in more peaceful times. Despite the horrendous price paid, an untiring body of living metal granted a perverse sense of freedom when compared to a mortal shell so frail that its owner had alternated between leading battles against the Old Ones and lying in a hospital bed.
Far from reluctant acceptance, Nemesor Isetnoclea outright relished immersing into the nodal command network. Her consciousness flitted between countless data streams, maintaining only the barest minimum of connection to her metal shell as Nemesor and Tomb Ship merged into a seamless whole. The Tears of Sastiea's hull was her skin, its sensors her eyes. She could feel the emptiness of space and the electrifying rush as the unfathomably-ancient warship's weapons batteries unleashed salvo after salvo at her command. She only had to think it, and the nodal command network ensured her orders were followed within moments.
A mental flick, and she leaped across the battlefield into the Honor of Valor as the Tomb Ship and a dozen others slowly drifted out of formation. A tiny hole opened up in the allied lines, and the Nemesor nearly ordered the ships back until position before she noticed the positioning of the cruiser escorts. As the Chaos fleet extended to exploit the false advantage, the Honor of Valor and the Tomb Ships accompanying it wheeled around and unleashed a withering barrage of particle beams and lightning arcs. Psychic assaults from specially-equipped warships shattered the enemy's coordination and morale, reducing the beginnings of an organized spear thrust into an unruly rabble. Cruiser squadrons crashed in from above and below, weaving in between the lumbering Chaos formations and disrupting any attempts to restore order among the enemy ranks. A flotilla of Tau and Eldar warships, previously hiding in the tomb ships' massive sensor shadows, flooded through the gap in the Tulun formation as the cruisers completed their encirclement and pinched off a considerable portion of the advancing Chaos fleet.
The failing advance had opened up a significant gap in the enemy lines, and Isetnoclea's subordinates lost no time in exploiting the opportunity. A tomb ship squadron jumped into the midst of the enemy fleet, beating back any attempts to seal the hole with overwhelming firepower. The Nemesor latched onto another data stream and allowed it to carry her into the lead tomb ship, the venerable Heart of Courage. She soon found her attentions divided between a dozen warships as additional squadrons join in to secure and widen the breakthrough. A Black Knights flotilla appeared off the Memory of Sacrifice's bow, followed moments later by a large Imperial squadron. Isetnoclea reckoned they had networked their navigational computers to the Black Knights' in order to execute the normally-dangerous tactical jump.
A faint mental tug drew the Nemesor's attentions away, and she reluctantly reassembled her consciousness and returned to her body. Her optical receptors cycled on and off and between vision modes, quickly bringing the formless grey blob standing before her into focus as she skipped through startup diagnostics.
Two arms, two legs, ten fingers…, Isetnoclea recited as she straightened up, adjusted her cloak, and retrieved her scepter.
"Lieutenant Schneider," the Nemesor greeted, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The nodal command network ensured that Isetnoclea knew of the Phaeron's new orders as soon as he had issued them. The handpicked legionaries were already waiting in one of the Tears of Sastiea's hangars, the requested transports and escorts were already set aside, and the special delivery courtesy of the Black Knights was secured and awaiting activation. There was only one official reason that the former Raider would appear before the Nemesor in person, and the nondescript metal case in Karen's grip confirmed Isetnoclea's suspicions.
Transporting an infiltration team was normally a duty entrusted to somebody much lower-ranked, but Isetnoclea did not feel even the slightest bit insulted.
After all, the Nemesor quipped to herself as she accepted the case, How many can claim they helped destroy a craftworld?
Thousand Sons Augur Station, Syria Planum
0700 Hours, Operation Typhoon D-Day Plus Three
Though they carried the same name and wore the same uniform, the Prospero Spireguard of the fifty-first millennium shared little else with the traitorous Imperial Army unit of the Horus Heresy. Much of their ancient equipment had fallen into disrepair as more knowledge was forgotten with each passing millennium. The Spireguard's experienced core was worn down through millennia of attrition: through combat, spawndom, or veterans simply leaving to start their own warbands or enjoy darker rewards from their infernal patrons. Nonetheless, the pale imitation of an Imperial Army regiment remained a cut above the standard slave-soldiers and traitor Guard.
Free of visible mutation, their equipment impeccably cared for, and with nary a trace of chems to be found anywhere, Lieutenant Nelda Kontos and the hundred-strong detachment of Spireguard assigned to Augur Station G-6461770 could be mistaken for an elite loyalist unit. Only the Tzeenchian sigils engraved into their crimson ballistic vests and silver plasteel helms betrayed their true allegiance. With sunrise a scant half-hour away, the eastern sky was already starting to lighten, and the Lieutenant paused her rounds to scan the horizon. The air over G-6461770—and indeed that over all of Syria Planum—remained understandably tense: the Mechanicum airborne units that managed to evade the Spireguard patrols had gone to ground, and the patrols had caught precious few of the enemy.
In such situations, the sheer lack of news frayed nerves as quickly as any guerrilla campaign. Every out-of-place shadow was a Ruststalker ready to pounce, and every stray glint of light was a Skitarii Ranger's eyepieces as it lined up a shot. The faint dust cloud in the distance, normally not even worth paying attention to, thus sent Nelda's thoughts into overdrive. She fumbled her magnoculars, which were saved from smashing against the unforgiving rockcrete only by their neck strap, as she reached up to activate her vox bead. A thunderclap split the air as Lieutenant Konto was lifted into the air and slammed against the sandbags behind her.
Nelda's vision swam and her ears rang, and a sudden wetness inside her helmet told the Lieutenant that at least one of her eardrums had ruptured. Lieutenant Kontos staggered to her feet and managed to stand for mere fractions of a second before the vertigo overwhelmed her and she crashed back against the sandbag barricade. The guard tower that Nelda had been trying to raise had been reduced to splintered debris, and she found herself pondering the reason as pandemonium erupted around her. The sentries on duty rushed to their stations as the rest of the unit scrambled out of their tents in various states of undress. Despite the situation, Nelda allowed herself a brief chuckle at the unfortunate few who only had time to pull their ballistic vests and helmets over their sleepwear.
The distinct pungent odor of ozone reached Lieutenant Kontos' nose, and she assumed both her eardrums had ruptured as lasbolts lit up the dawn. Crew-served heavy stubbers opened fire moments later, their tracers further illuminating the sky. The ground shook and Nelda's teeth chattered and a wave of heat washed over her as the vox tent went up in flames. One of the surviving vox operators rushed out of the tent, frantically beating at his burning clothing for several seconds before a high-velocity galvanic slug blew out a chunk of his torso. The bullet continued on, burying itself in whatever vox equipment survived the initial blast before discharging its deadly electric payload. The flames only grew more intense, and several Spireguard rushed in with firefighting equipment in a vain attempt to contain the blaze before it spread to the augur array.
The hairs on the back of Nelda's neck stood up as the firefighters paused in their task, their movements suddenly jerky and confused as they stared towards the forward trenches. Some began convulsing violently, some started bleeding from the nose or foaming at the mouth, and some simply collapsed into twitching heaps on the ground. Robbed of their senses by some of the Mechanicum's most fearsome weapons, they paid the rapidly-approaching flames no mind even as they were engulfed. The rapidly-strobing lights shining against the nearby rockcrete confirmed her worst fears, and the Lieutenant could feel her senses going blank and her muscles slacken even with such indirect exposure. A...thing of crimson metal and nightmares bounded over the stricken Spireguard, stopping only to put a stub round apiece into the burning firefighters as it made for the augur array.
The oversight proved illusory scant heartbeats later as a Ruststalker vaulted into the trench and grabbed Nelda's leg with enough force to snap her shin bone. The cybernetic abomination pulled the Lieutenant forward between its legs and tossed the senseless heap against the opposite sandbag barrier. The last thing Nelda Kontos ever saw was the Mechanicum assassin kneel down in front of her, reverse the grip on its oddly-indistinct blade, and plunge the weapon through her chest and into the rockcrete beneath. As blood filled the Lieutenant's lungs, the Ruststalker wrenched the blade out and stabbed again and again until the Spireguard no longer moved.
Had any nearby onlookers retained their senses, they would have seen a Ruststalker so caked in gore that one could scarcely tell where the crimson metal ended and the dried blood began leap into the forward trench and emerge moments later with one of the distinct silver helmets of a Prospero Spireguard clutched in its claw. Its skull-like faceplate scanned the burning camp for several moments before turning towards a seemingly-random direction and tossing the helmet with inhuman strength. The handful of Chaos soldiers taking cover behind a nearby stack of sandbags would discover to their horror that the Ruststalker had not bothered to remove the former owner's head from the helmet first.
That same handful of Chaos soldiers would have moments to process the sight before the Ruststalker reared up, loosing a hellish sound that somehow combined a static-laden roar of triumph with a bark of deranged laughter. An opportunistic potshot only drew the thing's attention, the lasbolt merely glancing off the exotic crimson alloys of its armor, and the sound abruptly stopped. The few defenders who retained enough presence of mind to soil themselves promptly did so as the Ruststalker's head whipped around to face the shooter's direction, the skull-like mask somehow radiating the aura of too-wide eyes and an even wider smile as it bounded towards the huddled soldiers with inhuman speed.
Those pledged to the Mechanicum of Mars had supposedly shed human emotion in favor of cold, unfeeling logic, but the perhaps the Ruststalkers were permitted a measure of sadism to better perform their duties. There was no logical reason why the Ruststalker abruptly rotated a complete one hundred and eighty degrees at the waist and then bend over backwards, skittering towards the terrified Spireguards on all fours. There was no logical reason why the crimson assassin paused to loom over one of the cowering traitor Guardsmen, bloodstained claws raised high, allowing the man to shriek in primal terror as he futilely emptied his charge pack into the thing's cuirass. There was no logical reason why the Rustalker's purposefully avoided any vital areas with its weapons, instead using its claw and blade to inflict hundreds of shallow wounds.
The unfortunate Spireguard's blood coated every nearby surface: the sandbags, the man's terrified companions, the rockcrete ground. An exceedingly-small amount splashed onto the Ruststalker and back onto the traitor Guardsman himself, though it was promptly lost against the pair's crimson armor. Though mere seconds passed until the man expired, the sheer agony and fear made each torture-filled second last a seeming eternity in the minds of both the victim himself and his companions. Almost as soon as the man's muscles went limp and his head lolled back, the Ruststalker tossed the flayed corpse aside with the same amount of care one would afford a disfavored toy. Claw flexing seemingly in eager anticipation, the crimson nightmare turned its sights towards the other Spireguards, their minds broken by fear to the point that they now amounted to little more than gibbering wrecks.
As the Killclades continued their bloody work, the more conventional Skitarii forces swept up the opposite side of the facility. A squad of Rangers methodically picked off any Spireguard foolish enough to expose even the tiniest portion of their bodies, leaving what little resistance remained for the rapidly-advancing rifle squads to mop up. Whereas the Killclades were assigned a mission of wanton terror and destruction, the other flank's mission demanded a greater degree of finesse and delicacy. As they executed any survivors and re-shot the bodies to make doubly-sure, the crimson-robed warriors methodically rifled through any corpse or building left reasonably intact for maps, ciphers, functional vox sets, or anything else that would give insight on the enemy's operations.
Panicked vox messages were already criss-crossing Syria Planum as outposts that had survived the Mechanicum raiding parties frantically sent out distress signals and outposts that had not survived missed their regular check-ins. With the local communications grid in shambles, reinforcements would arrive too late and in too little numbers to make much of a difference. Thus, the Killclades ceased their bloody rampage, scurrying away as quickly as they came. The Rangers on overwatch silently slipped away, carefully erasing any evidence of their presence. As the last of the Skitarii abandoned the outpost, their ocular implants streaming what intelligence they could recover to their superiors, the now-duo of Tauros'—still bearing the scars of the botched ambush that claimed their third—zipped past in the opposite direction.
The past fifty-four hours had pushed even the rugged reconnaissance vehicles to the limits of their pattern: caked in dirt, abrasive Martian dust lodged in every nook and cranny, their meager armor holed and scorched and crumpled. One of the Tauros' had even shed its left-side armor entirely after a krak missile had scored a direct hit on the metal plate but miraculously failed to detonate. Yet the hardy four-wheeled vehicles maneuvered almost every bit as well as they had immediately after landing. One loosed lengthy bursts of krak grenades, stopping its barrage only to reload, as the other covered the rubble with flaming promethium. The pair circled the remnants of Augur Station G-6461770, determined to only cease firing once they had exhausted their ammunition or the outpost was reduced to burning rubble and twisted scrap metal.
Black Knights Quarantine Zone
Ceylonia Hive Cluster
Until a few moments ago, Battle-Brother Diodoros had secretly suspected his fellow Astartes had embellished accounts of the so-called "Excaliburs." As he watched several of the craft silently hang in the air, their noses pointed in every direction with little regard for "up" or "down," the Salamander silently apologized to every brother he had so accused. Under the pretense of scanning the skyline for nonexistent threats, Diodoros and his fellow Space Marines gaped as the nimble Black Knights spacecraft abruptly twisted in place, fell into formation around the departing Thunderhawks, and rocketed away. The Sororitas gathered with them proved significantly less successful in concealing their awe.
The landing platform was distinctly hive-like: dirty and barely functional even on a good day. Long-dried puddles of spilled lubricants and fuel stained every surface, and the blast shields looked a poorly-timed breeze away from falling apart. At the same time, Diodoros was fairly certain the tiny floating robots that patrolled the platform did not correspond to any Mechanicus-approved design. Their very presence seemed to set off his environmental sensors every few seconds, though threat analysis continually returned nothing. The sound of an airlock cycling open, briefly revealing a bright and sterile hallway that had no business existing within such an old hive, drew the entire group's attention. If the white-and-red Knightmares that came through the metal portal felt any unease with holding the undivided attention of several dozen Astartes and Sororitas, they hid it well. Judging from the subtly-slumped shoulders and posture, perhaps they were simply too exhausted to care.
"Disinfection robot. Sterilizes anything within its patrol area with high-frequency radiation. Your armor should block it, but we still recommend not looking directly into the lamps or standing next to them for too long," the apparent leader of the Black Knights team announced without preamble, "There's already a ground crew at the Palace with your Thunderhawks' tail numbers and the equipment for a full deep cleaning."
Diodoros slightly turned his head to share a questioning glance with his neighbor.
"Standard procedure in a Level Four Quarantine," the lead Knightmare flicked their forearms off to the side, the seemingly-universal substitute for a shrug among power armor users, "The Colonel's waiting for you inside."
From how offhandedly they mentioned a "Level Four Quarantine" with no room for explanations or further questions, the lead Knightmare clearly thought the term's meaning was self-evident. They were proven right moments later as the group marched through the outer airlock. The metal doors slammed shut, and Diodoros' tactical display reported a steady drop in air pressure before the inner doors cycled open to reveal another nondescript corridor beyond. The Space Marine's environmental sensors went off again as the doors behind him slid shut and the room was bathed in a cold blue light. Small symbols were stamped on the wall in patterns repeating every meter or so, and it took Diodoros longer than his pride would allow him to admit to realize the "symbols" were writing. Some were dialects long lost to the Imperium, but the Space Marine could identify at least twenty-eight of the languages and could read just enough to realize they all repeated the same warnings.
In the exceedingly-unlikely event that any of the Imperial delegation didn't grasp the term's meaning by the time the innermost airlock cycled open, the sight beyond would have enlightened them. Everyone was clad in either power armor or a bio-containment suit, and every pathway to the airlock was lined with sophisticated diagnostor arrays and flanked with armed guards.
Black Knights Ceylonia Medical Command
Two Hours Later
The Sororitas' purpose was self-evident: primarily drawn from the Orders Hospitaller and Dialogous, their skills would prove invaluable in combating the disease currently ravaging the hive cluster's population. The Sisters were currently clustered around the central displays with several Black Knights, poring over records and reports and chatting animatedly with their counterparts. Diodoros stood some distance back, his vox tuned to the local channel in hopes of making sense of the situation.
"…don't know enough about your anatomy…"
"…assuming the worst-case scenario…"
"…locked down until we've characterized the pathogen…"
"…could have been spreading in the underhives for Emperor-knows how long…"
"…recommended the Palace quarantine any new arrivals…"
To the Salamander's frustration, what information he could glean only came in two flavors: that which he already knew, or that which he lacked the knowledge to understand. A sidelong glance towards his Battle-Brothers only deepened the mystery. Though treating battlefield injuries and maintaining the purity of the Chapter's gene-seed was a far cry from containing an epidemic currently in full swing, Apothecaries at least had medical training. As his gaze swept over the assembled Astartes several more times, Diodoros finally realized the source of his unease: all the Space Marines present were drawn from Salamanders tactical squads.
A/N: On a somewhat lighter note, one of the few people on this planet with access to my (now-decade-old) story notes very politely but firmly asked me where I was stashing the world's voodoo dolls.