Chapter 6: The Maelstrom of Battle

Husks lurched forwards, their desiccated and grotesque parodies of the holy human form driven only by one pounding command: kill. All higher thought processes had been lost during their forcible conversion at the hands of the Reapers, causing them to ignore any ideas of taking cover or flanking their enemies, instead making a straight forward charge at their enemies.

Had Arathen still been capable of making the expression, his face would have contorted in disgust at such a wasteful tactic. This was no battle, he thought as he rotated his Dreadnought's chassis to face the onrushing abominations, this was a slaughter. Where even the brutal and single-minded Ork was capable of simple tactics, these beasts simply charged forward en masse, confident in the strength of their numbers to overwhelm any defenders, even if they had to climb over a mountain of bodies to reach them.

Matching tips of brilliant white light coalesced within the ends of his twin-linked lascannon before launching outward, the beams outright incinerating those Husks hit by them and melting those that were either barely missed or suffered the slightest of touches. Those few that had avoided the cleansing beams were set alight by the heavy flamer that was attached to his power fist. The very last creature, through some instinctual form of self-preservation remaining from its past life, left its comrades to die as it continued to rush forward. For its impudence, Arathen grabbed it within the grip of his power fist and brought it up to eyelevel with his sarcophagus.

He contemplated its twisting form and gnashing teeth for a moment, idly wondering if any vestige of the soul of the human it had once been still resided within its twisted frame, before deciding that such questions were best left to the Company's Chaplain. The tiniest twitch of what was left of his mortal hand caused the power fist to contract sharply, sending a series of loud cracks through the air as every bone within its body was reduced to powder. Another flex of his hand sent the broken wreckage flying into yet another wave of its fellows, knocking over a pair of them as the gruesome projectile impacted.

Before the onrushing horde could meet its fate at his hands, however, they were all smoothly and efficiently dispatched within a few seconds by his Devastator Brothers, who wielded massive consecrated heavy bolters that required all of the prodigious strength of a Space Marine to use effectively. Arathen huffed slightly at being denied a chance to vent his wrath upon the enemies of mankind. Ever since his internment within this cold, hard shell of adamantium and arcane mechanisms, battle had been the only chance for him to remember what it was like to live once more. Checking his annoyance, he stomped away from the carnage to another part of the line where his presence was required.

The Battle Brothers of the Fifth Company had taken up position within and around the scattered remains of ancient xenos ruins, denying their foe any hope of flanking them and forcing them to charge the guns of the Space Marines in the futile hopes of being able to fight back. Time and time again Arathen and his Brothers had slaughtered them, yet their enemy showed no sign of relenting, no sense of self-preservation.

As he walked, Arathen observed with pride the status of his Brothers as they fought. Devastators broke up the obvious groups with roaring heavy bolters and the blinding, blistering screams of plasma cannons, while the Marines of the Tactical squads held the line against those that survived. To their sides and above them roared the Assault Marines, chainswords blaring and bolt pistols blasting their fury at the abominations that surged forth to overwhelm them. All of this was done with a calm sense of chaotic order, each Brother knowing his place and his target. No round was wasted, and no foe was left alive. All across the line not an inch was given, though death was freely offered up to all who dared to approach.

Soon he came across the one Brother he had been looking for. "Brother, I relish the chance to do battle once more, but I long for a true challenge. Is this the best that you can provide?" he boomed as he came to a stop next to Nemros, who was busy slicing through one of the creatures that the natives had dubbed a Marauder with his power sword. Turning, he let his fury coalesce within his lascannon arm once more before sending the gathered power forth to spear through one of the hulking amalgamations of flesh and machine.

"It is good to see your zeal has not waned with the passage of years Brother," Nemros grunted as he turned and fired a burst of bolter shells into another one of the abominations, tearing the thing to pieces as the mass reactive shells detonated within its body. Behind them boomed the autocannon mounted on the Emperor's Fist, the Predator tank belching out a shell that exploded within the midst of a group of Cannibals, the blast vaporizing them while the heavy bolters mounted in its side sponsons ripped a handful of Husks to shreds. "Perhaps, you would like to challenge one of those Reapers by yourself," the Captain wryly asked as he holstered Defiance to better grip his combi-plasma with both hands.

"That would be better than these weak affronts to the Emperor. The fact that this mankind is forced to rely upon the aid of xenos to defeat them is pathetic."

Nemros simply grunted, not bringing up the fact that by extension, the Marines of the Iron Sentinels were relying on xenos themselves. It was an unpleasant truth in an unpleasant galaxy, and the two Brothers were most familiar with both.

"Sergeant Thram is reporting a heavy push on the left flank Brother, and I must replace the one I send to his aid. I trust that you will ensure that this front remains secure?" Nemros asked after a moment. Arathen knew that the Captain was already aware of the answer, but he welcomed the change in subject all the same.

"Of course Brother. Hesitate not in delivering the Emperor's wrath."

Thram brought his growling chainsword upwards through the Husk's torso, the blade drinking deeply of the spraying blood. Another Husk sought to take advantage of its comrade's state of disembowelment by leaping at him while his blade was busy, but Thram's left hand lashed out, sending the creature flying backwards with the sound of shattering bones.

"Is there enough death for you here, Malthus?" asked Hrim as the Marine smashed a Marauder against the side of a crumbling wall, necrotized flesh and ancient stone both giving way beneath the force of the blow, burying the crumpled form beneath a ton of rock.

Malthus did not respond, instead blowing the head off of a Cannibal with a well-placed round from his Stalker boltgun before sending a trio of forms toppling with a quick burst. "There is blood aplenty, yet there is no challenge here," he spoke as he tore the sickle-shaped magazine from his bolter and slammed a new one in place. "I fear for our skills, if our battles continue to be like this. Laxness has no place within the servant of the Emperor."

"If that is how you feel Brother, then perhaps we should leave the rest of these cretins to you," Hrim suggested.

Joh simply scoffed in response to that, and Thram found himself hard-pressed to disagree with the unspoken comment. There were near a hundred of the abominations closing on their position, and even the four of them ran the risk of being pulled down and brought to an ignominious end. One Battle Brother on his own, no matter how mighty a warrior he was, stood no chance.

"Did Nemros say when aid would be arriving?" Hrim asked calmly as his bolter spit death at the oncoming foes.

"No," intoned Thram as he pulled a frag grenade from the waist of his power armor and lobbed it. "Merely that it would be soon."

"Then let us pray that-" whatever Joh had been about to say was lost as a Brute exploded outwards, sending a hail of gore and metal shards into the abominations that had surrounded it.

Thram's eyes never left his foes, though the faint reek of ozone and a ping of his auspex told him all that he needed to know about their rescuer. The crackling burst of lightning a second later that sent smoldering Husks tumbling to the ground was an unnecessary, yet thoroughly welcome, validation of his conclusion.

"Come Brothers," said Epistolary Vargus as he hefted his force staff, the power of the Warp raging within his eyes and sparking at the tips of his fingers. "Let us see how they fare against the might of the Immaterium."

This was what he had needed. What he had longed for.

A word passed his lips, the language it was spoken in incomprehensible to those with no sensitivity to the Warp, yet the results were immediately apparent. A dozen Husks folded in on themselves, the force of gravity in and around them suddenly increased by a thousandfold, crushing everything caught within its uncaring grip. A raising of his hand brought forth a score of torches on the battlefield, and forms could be faintly seen writhing inside unquenchable infernos that devoured their flesh greedily.

Battle drove away the Voice, gave him control of his mind once more. No more silky whispers of unlimited strength, no more lies of an empire to rival the might of the Imperium. Within the maelstrom of battle, the only voice in his head was his own.

Yet where the Voice had departed, another entity had rushed to fill the void left behind. It was laughably weak, childlike in comparison, yet still it prodded at the limits of his consciousness, demanding entry and control, and Vargus had not survived as long as he had by underestimating his foes. He needed to know just what this being was, and if it were a threat to the Company.

A furrowing of his eyebrows sent a powerful shockwave rippling outwards from his force staff, breaking the weak with its potency and sending the more durable flying backwards. Capitalizing upon the momentary reprieve, he lowered his defenses by a minute fraction.

YOU WILL SUBMIT.

Oily black tendrils seeped through the crack, only to be easily rebuffed by Vargus' defenses. Allow me to guess, he thought even as he reached out mentally to psychically destroy the primitive mind of a rampaging Brute, leaving the mindless shell splayed out on the radioactive desert sands. You are the Reaper that foolishly seeks to bar our way.

YOU WILL SUBMIT. The entity boomed once more, trying yet again to brute force its way into his mind, only to be once again rebuffed by Vargus' defenses.

Vargus mentally scoffed at the chosen tactic. There was no subtlety, no intricate weaving of one's soul and will to completely erase a foe from existence. This Reaper's tactics were simply a repeat of the tactics portrayed by its minions. For a mind so ancient and vast, it was truly and pathetically simple in its thought patterns.

YOU ARE AN ANOMALY. YOU WILL BE STUDIED. SUBMIT.

I have fought beings far more powerful and far more terrible than you, Abominable Intelligence. With all of the power granted to me by the Immortal Emperor, I prevailed against them, as I shall against you.

IRRELEVANT. WE ARE YOUR SALVATION THROUGH DESTRUCTION. YOU WILL SUBMIT.

Irrelevant, you say? Know this, blasphemous machine: when my Brothers and I stand triumphantly over your broken corpse, and the implacable tread of mankind reduces the rest of your ilk to dust, then you will realize that salvation is from the Emperor alone, and that He has commanded your destruction.

With that said, Vargus forced the entity from his mind entirely, throwing the Reaper out of his mental landscape with a pulse of psychic power. Minions on the battlefield reeled in conjunction with their master, leaving them vulnerable to the Space Marines who capitalized upon the opportunity presented to them. Dozens more forms were cut down, adding to the carpet of gray and brown bodies that blanketed the ground.

"Vargus," came the voice of Nemros over his vox bead. "I take it that we have you to thank for that?"

"Yes Captain. We have something to discuss after this is over."

"Understood. Report back to the center of the line, bring Thram with you too. The Thunderhawks have delivered the rest of our machines, and the time has come to push the attack."

"Are you sure Nemros?" Vargus asked even as he motioned for Thram and his squad to follow him back. "We have a good position here, and our enemy is content to throw themselves at us."

"The Emperor did not make us so that we could sit idly about Brother. We shall push into their heart and destroy them utterly."

"As you wish," he said before flicking off his vox. He had no desire to argue the Captain's commands, not that such a course of action would result in anything of course. Nemros' stubbornness was legendary amongst the Chapter for a reason.

The throaty roar of Rhinos and Razorbacks filled the air as he neared the center, while a trio of Thunderhawks screamed past overhead. Two Predators rumbled in front of the armored transports, turrets and sponsons eagerly searching out more foes to destroy. Next to them all stood the proud form of Honored Brother Arathen, his adamantium shell too large for any vehicle.

In the shadow cast by his psychic hood, a smile split Vargus' face. The time had come to show these filthy creatures just what the Emperor's Finest could bring to bear upon them.

Councilor Valern shifted minutely within his seat, looking up from the dossier that his STG agents had sent to him. Artificial sunlight poured into his office, lavish by Salarian standards, though rather austere by the standards of the other races of the galaxy. A few strategically placed potted plants, imported directly from Sur'Kesh, here and there, enough to capture the eye but nothing ostentatious. He was no Asari, after all.

The report was most troubling. Vast amounts of money was being juggled, shifted from supposedly reputable sources to individuals that simply refused to match up with anyone already registered within the Citadel's databases. It was if the receivers simply did not exist. But that was not what troubled Valern the most.

No, rather it was who was doing the juggling that disturbed him. All back trails pointed to one source alone, though Valern had difficulty believing them. After all, why would Councilor Udina be moving large amounts of money in the middle of an apocalyptic war? What could possibly be his motive for doing so? And perhaps most important of all, who was it all going to?

Troubling. Most extremely troubling, with disastrous implications for all. Valern had his suspicions, but he needed to find out more before he acted on them. Accusing the human Councilor without solid proof when his position was already shaky enough could be enough for the Salarian leadership back on Sur'Kesh all the excuse they needed to replace him, dishonoring him and his family in the process. He shuddered minutely at the thoughts of someone like Dalatrass Linron being appointed to the Council. All of his carefully constructed plans would be ruined if a xenophobe of her caliber were to take his place.

It was unfortunate, really, that he had to work through such an insulated government like his. While subterfuge and sabotage had long been the hallmarks of Salarian political and military tactics, they were nearly useless against an implacable foe such as the Reapers, who simply smashed their way through each isolated race, shattering entire fleets while shrugging off all but the heaviest firepower that could be brought to bear upon them. Trickery could only go so far against them, yet the dalastrasses continued to insist that the old tactics would suffice, and that they did not need the Turians or the humans. Rather than standing together, the hope was that the Reapers would grind themselves into oblivion against the other races, and after it was all over, their race would swoop in and become the dominant power in the galaxy.

Such wishful thinking, he mused, was going to inevitably result in the death of every living person in the galaxy.

Brushing such thoughts from his mind, he pushed the dossier off to the side of his desk at the sound of someone entering his office. Udina could wait for now. He would have Commander Shepard come back to the Citadel after his foray to Tuchanka and they would look into this matter together. Shepard had never liked Udina anyways.

"Kirrahe," he said to the approaching figure, "You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes, you received my report on Commander Shepard's unexpected detour?"

Of course he had. Commander Shepard was their most valuable asset in this entire war. So valuable, in fact, that the STG had an entire branch dedicated to ensuring his wellbeing, and all of its reports crossed his desk sooner rather than later. With Solus now onboard the Normandy, things had become easier thanks to the old scientist's cooperation. "What about it?" he asked the Major.

"I believe that we've found out what had the humans in such an uproar around the time he went back to Benning," Kirrahe said as he input a series of commands into his omni-tool.

The computer imbedded in Valern's desk flickered for a second as footage of Reaper troops appeared onscreen. "What's this?" he asked in curiosity. Kirrahe no doubt had a reason for showing him something for he had already seen. Kirrahe always had a reason for what he did. It was what made him such a good STG officer.

"A live feed from one of our satellites over Tuchanka," Kirrahe said as he continued to fiddle with the glowing orange tool that illuminated his forearm. "Watch," he said after a few more moments.

Valern continued to watch as Reaper forms lurched forward, charging something off screen. The satellite panned, following their advance until Valern saw what had Kirrahe all worked up. The onrushing forms were being torn to shreds as they tried to advance, blown in twain as they howled their impotent fury to the uncaring skies. Others melted beneath torrents of flame, flesh sloughing from their frames as they crumpled into puddles of charred bones and cybernetics. All of this was being perpetrated by dozens of massive, armor clad figures wielding weapons the likes of which Valern had never even dreamed of before, utilizing bulky machines that spat death at an alarming rate over the heads of the warriors.

He watched as a Brute charged at one of the soldiers that was carrying a massive, double-barreled cannon, hoping to catch the man off-guard. Instead, the soldier whipped around at a speed that defied all logic and squeezed the trigger on his weapon. For a split second, there was no visible effect, before the Brute simply stopped as if it had run into a thick metal wall, most of its mass having been turned into a cloud of lazily drifting ash. What little remained simply cartwheeled along before coming to a stop at the feet of the soldier that had unceremoniously erased it from existence. The soldier, for his part, ignored the hunk of flesh that now rested beneath him, simply turning to vaporize another Brute.

A trio of the massive figures came rocketing down from off screen, landing amidst a group of Cannibals and Marauders, the force of their landings throwing the nearest Husks off of their feet and sending the rest stumbling back. Before they could react, the rocket troopers acted, massive boots crashing down upon prone forms to reduce them to pulp before lashing out with swords of all things. Valern fully expected them to simply rebound, unable to pierce the thick hides and crude armor of the Husks. Such expectations were shattered, however, when churning teeth sent gouts of blood and liquefied organs spraying into the air to paint macabre frescos on the nearby ruins. Any remaining survivors were quickly cut down by the massive hand cannons that the warriors held in their off hands, before they reengaged their jump packs and flew off to another part of the battlefield.

"Who are these people Kirrahe?" he asked breathlessly.

"Whoever Shepard felt were important enough to leave the incredibly vital issue of the genophage cure behind for a few days. Whoever it is that has the Systems Alliance still bouncing off the walls, to borrow a human term," the STG Major said as he looked Valern in the eyes. "Most likely Councilor, they're our key to having any hope of defeating the Reapers. Between them, a resurgent Krogan, and a unified Human-Turian front…we may actually have a chance at not just surviving this, but truly winning."

"The technological advancements alone…" Valern said as the computer screen showed a figure that towered over the rest crushing a Brute with a single blow from a massive, glowing hammer, turning the creature's head into paste.

"It will be tricky, though," Kirrahe muttered in contemplation. "One wrong move and they'll be doing that to us as well. And we have no idea how many of them there are. It could be the Rachni all over again."

"What?" Valern asked. That was a difficult concept to wrap his mind around. The STG knew practically everything there was worth knowing, no matter how secret others thought such knowledge to be.

Kirrahe simply shrugged in response. "We have no sightings prior to Benning. Nothing to compare their weapons to. My advice? Tread very carefully indeed Councilor."

With that, Kirrahe left, only the hissing of the door marking his departure, leaving Valern staring at the feed that continued to play.

His hand reached for a button, depressing it as his fingers found purchase on it. "Councilor Sparatus," he said into the comm channel that had been set up for priority messages between Councilors, eyes never leaving the screen as he did. "We have something incredibly urgent to discuss. Meet me in my office as soon as possible."

Very carefully indeed.

Quick author's note: Thank you all for the feedback so far, really really appreciate it.