Chapter 12: We Slay Who We Wilt
"Captain Nemros, a pleasure to meet you in person," came a crisp voice from his left. Turning, he saw an aging man dressed in Alliance colors and wearing a beret, who promptly saluted him. "Admiral Hackett informed me that you're the one who I'll be sharing this operation with. General William Mathias, at your service."
For his part, Nemros merely nodded back. "An honor, General. I assume you were also told just what we are planning on accomplishing here today?"
"Indeed. And if I may say so? It feels good to be doing this," said Mathias, gesturing towards the holomap that dominated the cruiser's briefing room. "No more running and hiding. It's time to strike back."
"Yes," he said, somewhat surprised at how fervently he agreed. But the more he gave it thought, the more it made sense. The battles against Cerberus had been an unpleasant necessity, but this operation? He could throw himself into it with zeal, knowing that this was what the Emperor had made the Space Marines for. There were no ambiguities to be found here. "Please, fill me on the details. I have read the initial reports provided by your Admiral Hackett, but I wish to hear your opinion on the matter. What can we expect during this?"
"Well Captain, to be frank beyond those reports we don't know a whole lot about the situation on Terra Nova. Most of our knowledge comes from before the invasion, making it unreliable, while what little we do know is exceedingly grim."
"Explain."
Mathias depressed a button on the circular panel surround the holomap, causing a bevy of information to begin appearing over the holographic projection of Terra Nova. "I've taken the liberty of marking out potential landing zones, but this map is, like I said, from before the invasion, so we have no idea if they've been thoroughly ruined by or are Reaper hot zones."
"We will see this through General, have no fear. There was, however, one thing that caught my eye in the reports. They mentioned a stealth frigate being dispatched to the planet?"
"Yes, Captain. Infiltrators from the Falkirk were successful with meeting with the leaders of the largest band of resistance fighters on the planet, and have devised a plan for evacuating everyone that can make their way towards outskirts of the capital city, Scott," Mathias said as he gestured towards the holoprojector, the screen glowing red to indicate the city and its surrounding environs. "Unfortunately, the Falkirk did not possess the necessary equipment to take planetary scans. My understanding is that such equipment would render their stealth technology pointless due to the nature of such scans."
"I see. And their best estimates as to how many might possibly end up making it to the evacuation zone?" Nemros asked as he glanced at the holoprojector, mind racing as he enhanced the topographical view to survey possible landing zones, natural chokepoints, and potential Reaper staging areas.
Mathias sighed, clearing not wanting to share the impending information. "And this is where the information becomes grim Captain."
The general fiddled with the holomap before proceeding, and the obvious urban areas were overlaid with a shade of black, while rural areas were designated in shades of either red or yellow. "Our best estimates place the potential survivor count at around ten thousand." Mathias' eyes flitted towards the location of Scott on the map. "We're assuming that everyone within a major urban center at the time of the invasion has been lost, either killed or indoctrinated, and Terra Nova had only a relatively minor amount of people living in the rural areas in comparison." A grimace, and a slight exhalation. Nemros took note of these before Mathias went on. "At worst, only a few thousand. No more than six."
"Six thousand," Nemros muttered, glancing at the holographic projector once more before turning back to Mathias. "Out of how many?" he dared to ask.
"Over four million," came the grim answer.
"Throne," he swore softly. So many humans dead, their souls lost forever beyond the embrace of the Emperor, and their forms most likely twisted into service of the Reapers. The thought that such blasphemy was hardly unique to this planet made the revelation even more unpalatable.
"It gets even worse, I'm afraid. The truth is that I don't have the capabilities to transport such a large number of bodies back to our ships, even if the worst case scenario come true. Even if we pack our Kodiaks to the absolute maximum, this evacuation will be slow, and every minute increases the risk of us being overrun on the ground, and gives the Reapers time to send more of themselves."
"Does the Alliance not have any larger transports than your shuttles?" Nemros asked, bewildered at the confession. Surely they had something, anything, larger than those small, metal boxes!
"We do," explained the General, his tone becoming a mixture of frustrated and despondent. "But these days most of those have been impressed into theaters deemed more important, while every planet lost results in a decrease in our manufacturing capabilities. Soon, the Kodiaks might be all we have left, and precious few of those."
"And right now, they are all we have," finished Nemros gravely.
"Precisely. We're short on the necessary vehicles, missing much of our heavy weapons, and the forces detailed to my command are ad hoc, glued together from a dozen different shattered divisions."
Nemros was silent for a long moment, thoughts shifting and twisting around in his mind in response to this new information. By the General's description, it seemed as if this operation was doomed from before it could even begin, and he wondered if the Council and Admiral Hackett had not intentionally set him and his Brothers up for failure. After all, if they failed here, then they could try to force him to follow their agendas rather than his.
"All of these hindrances appear to be insurmountable, to be sure," he said. "And if you were tasked to do this yourself, perhaps they would be. But of what you just listed, we can provide both the vehicles and the weaponry, both of which, I assure, will be far more potent than anything you could have fielded yourself. As for the nature of your command, the proximity of certain death tends to force men to work together, lest they perish otherwise."
"That certainly does alleviate a substantial portion of our problems," admitted Mathias, "and we can gather more details on the surface once we are in orbit. All we need do then is to craft a general evacuation strategy and adjust accordingly to any new and upsetting details that may arise."
"Indeed General. Let us not waste any time then. With every passing minute, more and more humans perish that might otherwise have been saved."
"I couldn't agree more."
"I will be honest with you Captain, I question the wisdom of this operation. It is doubtful we will be able to evacuate the majority of the civilians present before the Reapers respond in force." expelled a frustrated Mathias after several hours of poring over equipment lists, evacuation plans, and force deployments. Several different forms of defenses and evacuation protocols had been introduced, critiqued, and discarded, leaving them no better off than they had been originally, and clearly the man had reached his limit. "There are no plans for a diversionary offense elsewhere, which means that they can arrive within hours after we push their fleet out of orbit. How many people will we be condemning to death that might have otherwise survived? Both soldiers and civilians?"
Nemros blinked slowly behind his helmet, still staring at the holoprojector while he mulled over the General's despairing question. It was not, he mused, an unfair one, even if it was a rather naively idealistic one. Much of the blame for this situation lay with the Council. These xenos who styled themselves as the rulers of the galaxy were running scared, as was their nature, hoping that they would be the last ones to be devoured by sacrificing their neighbors to the machines first. As a result, good humans, even if they were misguided and unenlightened to the truth, were left to suffer and forced to make choices that were difficult for them to accept, wallowing as they were in their moral naivety and uncertainty.
"Life is the Emperor's currency. Spend it wisely," Nemros intoned carefully, turning from the holoprojector to look at Mathias.
"I'm sorry, what?" asked Mathias, bewildered and startled out of his concentration.
"It is a saying amongst those who have been given the responsibility of leading men to their deaths in the Imperium. A reminder that death is an inevitability on the battlefield, and that said leaders must strive to give those deaths purpose, even when all seems hopeless."
Turning back to the projector, Nemros motioned toward the estimated casualty figures. "When I first heard those words, I was like you. Young and idealistic, hoping to make my mark on the galaxy. Then came my first deployment as a scout, on a world once known as Garathor Beta."
Instinctively he clenched his fist in response to that name. Memories swam unbidden to the forefront of his eidetic memory, of the sight of Imperial citizens butchered in their thousands by Ork blades, of hives burning and a relentless tide of green flesh that refused to wither away even under planetary bombardment. He shook his head and pressed onwards.
"What I saw was terrible, and it shook me. It still shakes me to this day. Many of my Brothers fell on that planet, and in the end, we saved only a precious few from there. Afterwards, I was angry, confused, questioning. Why had so many been sacrificed for so few? That was when my Captain at the time, Arathen, pulled me aside and spoke those words to me, explaining what they meant."
He glanced over to the General, seeing him drinking in his words intensely, a thoughtful expression on his face. "All human life is precious in the eyes of the Emperor, and it is for them that we lay down our lives. It is our purpose, our duty, what we left our mortal lives behind for. And while you may not be one of us, your duty, and the duty of the men who serve under you, is the same."
He looked back to the projector, gesturing at the number of estimated casualties once more. "It is likely that many will die, of that there should be no delusions. But every single soul we pull off that benighted planet will make their sacrifice worthwhile, for the alternative is to let them all die, their souls left to wander the Warp in pain and betrayal."
Mathias said nothing, gazing quietly at the projector for several moments. Finally, he nodded and turned away, looking back at him. "Thank you, Captain," he said softly, before diving back into where they had left off before. Nemros, for his part, did not acknowledge the mortal's words verbally, instead choosing to simply move to the man's side at the holographic table.
They still had much more to plan for.
"Contact," muttered Malthus from where he lay in front of Thram, visor fixed firmly behind his Stalker bolter's scope. His gray and black power armor was nearly impossible to distinguish from the shadowed crevice that his Brother had chosen to set up in.
"I see them," grunted Hrim disappointedly from his left side, shifting minutely as he inched forward for a better view. "Another group of husks. Hardly worth the effort."
"There are also two of those Brutes down there, and a small number of Marauders. You are getting sloppy Hrim," he chided with no real heat in his tone. They, along with several other kill teams, had been on this planet for nearly a week now, stealthily inserted by one of the Alliance's frigates to begin thinning the Reaper hordes while the fleet finished making the necessary arrangements for the impending operation. By this point, hundreds upon hundreds of kills later, Thram hoped that Nemros and the rest of his Brothers would arrive soon, if only so they could resupply.
Idly, he flicked the safety on his bolter off, shooting the Reaper pawns another quick glance.
"Auspex scans are returning clean Brother-Sergeant," reported Joh from behind him. "It is just this group."
"Good," he blinked twice, the machine spirit in his armor complying with the command. Target markers flickered into existence. "Malthus, target the Marauders. Joh, take the left Brute, I will take the right. Hrim, three round spread on the husks, then we will charge them. No sense in wasting any more ammo than we have to on these worthless scum."
"So, standard procedure then?" Hrim asked, angling his bolter towards his designated targets.
"Enough. Prepare to fire on my order."
The Reaper group moved closer and closer, slowly making their way towards the overhang on which they lay in wait. Lazily, Thram's eyes wandered away from the oncoming group to take in the world that they had been fighting on for the past several days. It must have been beautiful once, in its own way, but with these abominations crawling all over and despoiling the land all he could feel was disgust. Green foliage was in the process of giving way before black, tainted earth, which spread wherever these creatures tred. The planet was dying by degrees, and Thram had an eyewitness view to the tortuous process.
His eyes slid back to the Reaper creatures that were now close enough that they would be unable to respond in time to their strike. The gentle breeze that had danced across his armor, tickling the leaves above him into movement, died out, as if the world itself was holding its breath at the impending violence.
"Fire," he intoned after another moment, finger clenching slightly over his bolter's trigger as he spoke.
The sound of one bolter firing was deafening on its own, a thundering crack of the bolter itself firing, followed by the boom of the bolt shell's gyro jet engaging to propel the round to supersonic speeds. The sound of four such weapons firing simultaneously, especially when the sound waves were amplified by the solid walls of the rocky canyon that they were in, was loud enough that Thram wondered whether the Reapers in orbit had heard the discharge.
To his shame, his bolt missed his Brute's head, the creature having shifted at the last possible moment, instead speeding forward to burrow into the beast's shoulder before detonating in a squall of gore. He had a brief moment to observe the now-unattached arm skitter across the earth while the beast tumbled downwards to the ground. Then he was on his feet, bolter strapped to his thigh while his chainsword sprang to life, roaring vengeance at the creatures that dared attack humanity and poison their worlds. Behind him, he was aware of Joh and Hrim following him as he leapt down into the throng of cybernetic-riddled flesh, while another trio of sharp crack-booms informed him that Malthus was finishing off his targets before joining them.
The first husk he reached died in a heartbeat, the wretch still struggling to respond from the suddenness of the attack and the loss of the Marauder command creatures. The churning teeth of his sword rampaged through its withered body before appearing on the other side in a shower of bright blue viscera, leaving the husk halves to fall to the ground behind his charging form.
The fight was pitiful, as he had expected. The crippled Brute made a feeble swipe with its remaining arm, a blow that Hrim dodged with contemptuous ease before plunging his combat blade into its head, ending its twisted mockery of life. To his right, Malthus sent a fist forward, slamming it into the face of another husk. Atrophied flesh giving way before the force of the blow, and there was a momentary tearing sound before the ruined head was sent backwards through the air.
His chainsword flashed outwards, adamantium teeth gleaming hungrily in the day's dying sunlight. The machine spirit embedded within roared its pleasure as the final husk fell, chest a twisted ruin in the weapon's wake. With a glance, he took in the time on his helmet's chronometer. Twenty-nine seconds.
"Two point three seconds longer than the last group," he noted idly, turning to see Hrim wiping his combat blade clean on a nearby plant.
"You missed your target, I had to take the time to finish it off," the other Astartes responded. Thram could easily visualize the small grin that no doubt occupied his Brother's face underneath his helmet. "And you said I was becoming sloppy."
"Merely assisting you in keeping your skill with the blade honed," he retorted.
Hrim sheathed his combat blade, turning to face him fully. Before he could continue their light banter, however, Joh spoke up from where he stood in front of them. "Brother-Sergeant, I am receiving the designated signal from the Shadow."
Thram grunted, placing his chainsword back in its place on his armor's belt. "Verified?" he asked.
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Then we make for the rendezvous point. Send the acknowledgement ping," he said, waving Malthus over from his sentry position as he did.
"Sent. The Shadow has received, and ETA to planetary orbit is two hours," Joh said after a moment, removing the signal booster from his armor's power pack and powering it down.
"Then let us not waste any time. The Chapter has need us," Thram said, turning away from the massacre, his squad falling in behind him as he did. "Stay alert. There is no telling if whether or not our transmissions were intercepted."
"Understood," came the unanimous reply, and together they set off deeper into the wilderness of a dying world.
Beneath his feet, the command deck of the Shadow jostled as the ship exploded from the Warp, the tear in reality closing reluctantly behind them, crackling with unnatural energies as it did. As soon as they were clear of the rift, the ship's engines began powering up, propelling the kilometers long vessel towards the blue and green marble hanging in space.
Faintly, straining his enhanced sight to the maximum, he thought he could spy black specks that hung in orbit over the pristine world below them, taunting him with the knowledge that no matter how many humans they saved here today, there were countless more still suffering elsewhere across the galaxy outside of their reach, condemned to suffer and die at the hands of these abominable machines.
He had not tolerated such actions before, not when the forces of Chaos had sought to spread their ruinous taint wherever they went, nor when the hordes of xenos threatened to wash over the Imperium in an endless tide. Though he was no longer defending the Imperium and the Emperor that he had sworn his eternal service to, he could still do the same for this humanity.
"Confirmed, Lord," came the voice of an ensign detailed to the ship's comm systems, interrupting his train of thought. "All kill teams have successfully reported in and are moving to designated rendezvous points."
"Good. Shipmaster, status on the enemy fleet?"
"Two of the type designated Sovereign-class, three destroyers, and one troop transport. The warships are turning to face us, while the transport is moving away from the planet," came Davriel's mechanical report.
"So quick to flee when something capable of fighting back appears. Possibility of intercept on the transport?"
"Negative. Estimated time to intercept would leave the Alliance fleet vulnerable by the time we caught and destroyed it."
Nemros grunted in frustration. "Very well, let it go. Weapons?"
"Tech-priests are reporting that the plasma projectors are warming up, and will be ready to fire within acceptable standards," came the report of another ensign. Kathern, if he remembered correctly, a Chapter Serf and former Aspirant. "Macro-cannons are loading; no complications are being reported."
"Status of the torpedo tubes?"
"Two on the port side and one on the starboard are operational. The tech-priests are still working to repair the damage the daemons did, but they are reporting that some of the damage is beyond their capabilities to fix."
"Tell them to keep working then. Abstain from using the torpedoes in this battle, I suspect we will need them later rather than sooner."
"Understood my lord, message sent and received. Is there anything else?"
"No Shipmaster, I leave the rest in your capable hands and battle-tested abilities."
Davriel did not reply to that, at least not verbally. Instead, he turned away and began giving out orders to the command deck crew. For his part, Nemros closed his eyes and lost himself in his thoughts, mentally reviewing and adjusting the plans for the upcoming battle. Names of battle brothers and their placement in the order of battle began filtering through. He knew that he would need all of them planetside for this, even Vargus, whose unspoken problems were worrying him more and more with each passing day. But even as problematic as the Epistolary was becoming, he was still a psyker of not inconsiderable power, power that would prove incalculably useful.
He blinked, and was surprised to see his helmet's chronometer telling him that more than an hour had passed, and Terra Nova had become significantly larger than he remembered it being. Likewise, the Reapers, though still separated by hundreds of thousands of kilometers, were now close enough that he did not need to strain himself to see them. The time for battle, it seemed, was upon them.
"Shipmaster," he said, turning away from the command oculus and towards the raised dais upon which sat the Shadow's command throne.
"Yes, my Lord?" asked Davriel, turning away from the ensign that had been delivering one last status report to him.
He raised his hand, pointing towards the shapes of the Reapers, little more than black blobs against the backdrop of green and blue, which were now hurrying to reach the Shadow. "Do you see that fleet?" he queried rhetorically, knowing full well that the man could. The sight granted to the Shipmaster by the Shadow's machine spirit was far superior even to his own enhanced eyesight.
"Of course, my Lord."
"I do not want to."
To his everlasting credit, there was no hesitation in his response. "Understood my Lord."
Deep in the recesses of his mind, Shipmaster Davriel wondered idly as to whether he should be concerned at the rate of attrition they were facing in this new galaxy. Rushing from one battle to the next resulted in many dead enemies of the Emperor, to be sure, but it also had the detrimental effect of leaving one's munition stores distressingly empty. Without a forge world to resupply at, it would not take long at this rate before they were forced to rely on ramming and the Shadow's planetary bombardment cannon to do their killing rather than their dedicated ship-to-ship weaponry.
A sudden flash of movement from the Reapers dragged him away from his thoughts and back towards the unfolding battle. It took him a moment to recognize the maneuver, but when the black shapes suddenly reappeared, this time much closer, it clicked.
Calculated jumps. Understandable, given what he had read on Reaper tactics during their stay at the Citadel. The weapons utilized by the machines were relatively close ranged, and the abominations had a proclivity to ram their enemies nearly as much as they destroyed them from a distance. An excellent tactic against the Citadel races that desperately needed all the time and distance they could to hammer the machines from afar.
Tragically, at least for the Reapers, they were not facing the archaic warships used by the xenos. One of the Sovereign-class Reapers had emerged from its jump in the perfect position to receive a full broadside from the starboard weapons. He sent the order to open fire racing through his thoughts, where it was interpreted by his command implants and transmitted to his command throne. From there, the order was sent racing through the bowels of the ship until it reached the relevant sections.
Beneath him, the Shadow rumbled, its vast and infinitely complex machine spirit expressing its disgust at the twisted product of forbidden sciences that had by now realized its fatal mistake and was desperately attempting to move out of the way.
It never had the chance. Macro-shells powerful enough to level hive cities and great masses of plasma hot enough to liquify mountain ranges raced from their respective gun ports and slammed across the hull of the Reaper. Kinetic barriers failed in less than a heartbeat and black hull plating buckled for naught more than a brief second before giving way completely, and one tendril was shorn off completely by an errant macro-shell. In the end, the Reaper less exploded and more simply vanished from the galaxy, an enormous fireball erupting from superheated plasma eating its way through to the eezo core and consuming it.
Davriel, capable of seeing every detail of the rapidly expanding ball of flame in great detail through the Shadow's augur array, relished every second of it. The sight of the destruction was intoxicating to behold, the vast bloodthirst of the machine spirit mixing with his righteous glee to form a potent cocktail that threatened to send him spiraling into a frenzy.
A red beam of hydromagnetic metal slicing across the void shields drew his attention back to the fight, his flesh body frowning as he was dragged away from the sensations and back into rationality.
"Status of the void shields," he demanded. He doubted the attack did much damage, but it still helped him gauge the strength of their enemy's weapons.
"Void shields steady at 71%," came the faint report from one of the ensigns, sitting at her duty station in the lowered pit that surrounded the command dais. Her voice sounded as if he were hearing her underwater. "No unusual signs of stress, recharging commencing in ten seconds."
A mere four percent? Pitiful. Still, he had not survived as long as he had by becoming overconfident. Very much unlike the Reaper destroyer that had been responsible for launching the attack.
It was sat directly in front of the Shadow, showing that it was determined not to make the mistake that it's formerly larger kin had made by avoiding the gun ports. However, in doing so, it made another mistake, this one just as fatal.
A warship of the Imperium was a weapon in every aspect. Beyond the obvious weaponry that could lash out over tens of thousands of kilometers were the void shields that could disable entire squadrons of strike craft simply by being raised, their unique nature causing them to bristle and snap outwards with tendrils and waves of electromagnetic energy. And beyond even that was the sheer mass and size of the ship itself.
The Reaper, by placing itself in front of the battle barge, had thrown itself into the path of a very large and very heavily armored glacier that even now was accelerating, engines blazing mightily as they strained to push seven and a half kilometers of adamantium through the void. Like it's deceased kin, it pushed itself to move out of the way of the humongous ad hoc projectile that was bearing down upon it, and like the other Reaper, it failed to do so, the Shadow's oversized engines rapidly accelerating. There was a brief rumble as the abominable intelligence splattered all over the front end of the void shields before the Shadow pushed past the remaining wreckage.
The remainder of the fight was brief. The Reapers had arrogantly underestimated their foe and were now paying the price for it. The other Sovereign-class was torn to pieces by a trio of macro-shells that cored the machine before exploding, causing it to burst outward like the galaxy's largest frag grenade, while the remaining two Reaper destroyers attempted to flee but were obliterated well before they could make it out of range.
Mildly disappointed that the vaunted Reapers had failed to put up anything nearing an appreciable fight, Davriel began the disconnection rituals that would release him from the grip of the Shadow's machine spirit and allow him to focus fully upon the world around him. As he came to, he gasped, closing his eyes at the feeling of sensations running up and down him once more.
"Well done, Shipmaster," came the voice of Captain Nemros from nearby.
"Thank you, my lord," he answered, forcing his eyelids open so he could look respectfully at the superhuman warrior.
"I will be in the strategium, finalizing our evacuation plan. Inform me when the Alliance vessels arrive in system," the Captain said as he turned to leave the command deck, gray and black power armor propelling gene-forged flesh out of his sight.
"Understood," he said, turning back to gaze at the planet that lay before him.
A/N: IT LIVESSSS.
Once again, thanks for sticking with this story and for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. This story has become much more popular than I ever thought it would be, and that is quite frankly humbling.