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+++ 03.15 hrs. {Sys. Local – Knossos}
+++Tempestus Seg. #1669/H
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NavGrp_Designation: Lambda
Individual_Designation: Justicar
Loc_Name: Hab_Troop (Temp) | (Lv 226)
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The pale blue of night-cycle glowstrips spilled into the dark confines of the crew compartment. Even at the dimmed setting, the light was disruptive: a soft refrain of ruffling sheets, sleepy murmurs and groans of irritation issued from the bunks built into the far wall of the space. One occupant of the crew compartment however, found the darkness and the gentle hum of distant reactors insufficient to lull him to sleep. Sgt. Girard Burkhalter, stormtrooper and team leader in the Elysian 22nd Stormtroopers' Expeditionary Detachment, found sleep elusive during the quiet hours of the night cycle. Extended space travel, as it turned out, lost its allure rather quickly. Unlike many of the permanent crew that inhabited the Justicar, a recently commissioned Emperor Class Battleship on which he and his team currently travelled, Girard found relaxation difficult. The knowledge that, while the ground beneath his feet was still, he was hurtling through the cosmos at speeds impossible to fully comprehend, was difficult to reconcile – to say nothing of the eeriness of warp travel. In what was becoming a nightly ritual, Girard took to the empty causeways of the berthing decks (and often far beyond) to help put his mind at ease.
While this portion of the ship was deep in slumber, no part of the Justicar truly slept. Crews' shift changeovers happened around the clock, and far above him on the command decks, engineering bays, and cathedral wards, thousands of souls toiled away in service of His Imperial Navy. He passed teams of blue and grey-clad navy ratings on their way back to their berths, toolkits slung over their shoulders or stuffed into grubby coveralls. Many sported minor augmetic enhancements: interfacing studs and bundles of microfibral synth muscle snuck out from beneath their hard-wearing attire. The crewmen avoided Girard's gaze as they crossed his path, now that word had spread of the troops living in the sequestered auxiliary berthing chambers.
The mystique surrounding the foreign Stormtrooper detachment was of a truly fearsome nature. Rumors abound of cunning and clandestine warriors that stalked the worlds of their home system, slaughtering entire xeno covens and Ork raiding parties before disappearing without a trace. Other stories told of how they dove through the void, crawling aboard enemy vessels and butchering entire crews in their sleep. The more fantastical accounts told of men that could disappear at will, smell fear from kilometers away, and single handedly duel a dozen Aeldari gladiators to a standstill. Few dared draw their attention, much less their ire. This reputation, while comically hyperbolic on its surface, was nonetheless well deserved.
Girard continued his ambling journey through the auxiliary berthing decks. A series of shortcuts, found after long hours of sleepless wandering, deposited him in a major utility thoroughfare. In his off-duty hours, he moved about in his olive undershirt and uniform trousers colored in the rich, verdant polycam hues of his home world's famously lush foliage. His snug and special-issue boots, purchased on the generous Munitorum stipend afforded to his prestigious detachment, thudded softly as he pulled himself up a narrow spiral staircase. On his thigh, fastened securely in its holster, was a custom-fitted Mk. III Accatran Pattern laspistol - another luxury item provided by his stipend. Typically, Naval Security Forces or armsman gangs were the only personnel permitted to openly carry loaded weapons aboard a shiftship, but their current proximity to a campaign front afforded the stormtroopers more freedoms than most.
Girard immersed himself in the hectic life of the Imperial Navy, back in harsh day-cycle glowstrips. All around him were hustling crews of Navy ratings, Administratum agents, loping Mechanicus minions, and drifting servo-skulls, jostling past one another in teeming crowds. The ceiling rose several meters over Girard's head to a vaulted ceiling, cast in gargoyle-encrusted gothic style. This extra space allowed access for enormous cargo trolleys to trundle to and fro, pushed along by gene-bulked servitors. Voices echoed indistinctly from vox-horns mounted to the corners of the thoroughfare, and canned prayers and announcements fought for attention with the ambient noise. Girard blended into the crowd, weaving his way through the well-kept halls of the ship.
Unfortunately, this deep in the vessel, nothing of the local star system was immediately visible. The fact that the various arterial causeways remained open with only nominal security forces present, however, was a good omen. The last safety stand-downs had passed several Terran Standard days ago, now that the orbital engagements were won. The enemy fleet was routed, and the mop-up engagements were now occurring so far away from the Justicar that the multi-colored explosions and glittering trails of naval bombardments could no longer be seen with the naked eye.
Presently, Girard matched pace with a cargo trolley, laden with tidy stacks of electrical panels varying in size and proportion. Their reflective chrome surfaces offered a brief reflection:
The image of a tall, fair-skinned man returned his gaze. A close-cropped head of blonde hair and strong jaw framed a handsome, clean-shaven face set with deep green eyes. Broad shoulders and powerful muscles bulged from beneath his close-fitting undershirt, tapering to a slim waist upon which his pistol belt snugly rested. Goosebumps raised on the skin on his vein-striated arms in response to the chilly air pumped in from the ship's generarium complex, to which he fought back an involuntary shudder. Before the moment of reflection veered toward vanity, the drone behind the trolley picked up its pace, goaded remotely by its Mechanicus masters. As he watched the slab-muscled behemoth continue its mindless march, a voice called out to him from behind:
"A bit late for a stroll, Sergeant Burkhalter. Or perhaps early?" It was a woman's voice, stern but inquisitive. Girard turned mid-stride to see two women, both clad in the royal blue dress uniforms of the Imperial Navy. Both were several inches shorter than Girard and slender in build, their fair skin made even more so from so much time spent away from the warming light of a star. Girard noted the pair of silver rank stripes adorning the cuffs of their jackets, and gleaming silver collar devices. They were full-fledged Lieutenants: by no means a particularly powerful rank in the grand scheme of things, but still a great deal more authority than a stormtrooper Sergeant.
"Oh, somewhere in the middle, ma'am. How can I help you?" He said quickly, throwing a sharp salute. He stepped to one side, out of the main flow of foot traffic. The two women followed, staying in perfect step as they moved.
"At ease, Sergeant. It is not often that we are able to work alongside Militarum elements of your prestige - particularly a meritorious inductee like yourself. Life as a Drop Trooper was not thrilling enough, perhaps?" She stepped forward and offered her free hand in greeting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Perplexed, Girard shook her hand. As their eyes met, her pupils dilated in the style of an archaic camera shutter, glinting with an artificial shine. This was high-end augmetic enhancement, excellent for frightening the superstitious masses with notions of omniscience, thanks to neural implants that allowed for uncanny data recall. For those more accustomed to such things, it was little more than a parlor trick, and more telling of tremendous personal wealth than anything supernatural. Any sufficiently cleared adept or munitorum chief could peruse his personnel records at their leisure. Girard ignored the veiled boasting.
"I see. I'm sure I don't know what you mean, regarding working together, Lieutenant…?" He let the question hang.
"Kseniya Maksachova. Naval Intelligence, Field Division. And yes, the rebellion of an Imperial world is a complex thing, as you know. A great deal of, shall we say, lateral cooperation will be required to bring the matter on Knossos to a close." She said.
The other Lieutenant, a raven-haired woman with a gentle sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, leaned in her ear to whisper a brief word before stepping past Girard.
"Well, we're all ready to do what's required of us, ma'am. Emperor willing." he said. True to form, he and his men had been told precious little regarding their next deployment, and felt a rush of excitement at even a vague promise of information.
"Indeed. At any rate, we must prepare for the day-cycle. But, we will be seeing you and your team very soon – 0500hrs, Ready-Room 12, yes?" She said with a smirk.
"I suppose you will." Girard said. She gave a quick nod before stepping past him and following her raven-haired compatriot.
"Good day, Sergeant." She said over her shoulder, before disappearing behind a gaggle of chanting priests. Girard decided that he was quite finished with his stroll, and began the long walk back to this quarters.
[] [] []
"That's what I'm telling you, it was frakkin' bizarre. Even called out my service record to get a rise out of me," Girard said to his assistant team leads.
"That is bizarre – sounds like a wannabe Throne Agent, all cloak-and-dagger." Corporal Solomon Stern scoffed. More often referred to as 'Solly' by his fellows, the man was a picture-perfect example of an Imperial stormtrooper: a broad and muscle-bound physique, buzzed head, and craggy facial features marked him as a veteran member of the elite warrior ranks. Corporal Postigo, a short and dark-complexioned man hailing from one of Elysia's mining colonies added:
"Pah, it always happens like that. The spawn of some noble fop spends a small fortune to have the 'Cogs cram their head full of bionics, and next thing you know they're prancing about like they're a member of the frakking Senatorum. Must be rather swell, being so flush with coin." Postigo added. He folded his thick arms across his chest and glanced over to the rest of the team, gathered around a viewport.
Ever the reasonable and empathetic foil, Piotr Stark, the squad's medicae-certified specialist piped up: "Or they're terrified at the prospect of kitting up for combat operations, and are doing their level best to not look like it. Either way we'll find out soon."
Clustered outside of the briefing compartment, the men of 2nd Squad waited patiently. Girard and his men were now fully dressed in their field uniforms. In a deployed state, the well-funded stormtroopers would forego typical uniform jackets, opting instead for something more practical. Grey, stretchy, and breathable material – ideal for prolonged flak wear – comprised the torso while the sleeves, shoulders, and zip-up collar retained their sturdy, fabric polycam construction. Their sleeves were cuffed to mid-forearm in typical Elysian fashion, a choice that was made of equal parts comfort and aesthetic. While their combat kit was still stowed away, each man kept their sidearms in their thigh holsters, cells primed and ready for action.
Gathered at an open arma-plas viewport, the rest of his men chatted idly. There was the hulking form of Specialist Wulfhausen, far and away the biggest man in the squad. Possessed of a sharp wit and affinity for comms equipment and engineering gear that belied his thuggish build, he was a true renaissance man of combat operations. Beside him as always was Specialist Johannsen, a lanky and hawk-nosed prankster made to look comically slight when placed beside his massive comrade. They were engaged in a tense debate over the least horrid mess-galleys in their berth's vicinity with Specialists Streeter and Veidt. The former was the newest addition from the Progenium academies and the latter, taken from his family's noble estate as a child after their tragic demise, would have fit perfectly at a hive spire gala were it not for his militaristic attire. As they discussed the various pros and cons of their favorite dining hall locations with the earnestness of august scholam professors, their eyes constantly flitted to the viewport beside them.
The starboard side of the Justicar offered a much more interesting view of local space. The aftermath of the orbital engagement was now on full display: a flickering galaxy of debris drifted in miles-long clusters around the ruined hulls of defense platforms and star forts, creating shimmering rays as they crossed through the light of Knossos's star. Promethium pipelines vented jets of flame into the void, pushing the fragmented structures into increasingly erratic orbits. Electrical conduits sparked and flared in the darkness, the ancient facilities dying by degrees after the brutal destruction visited upon them by the loyalist battlegroup. Floating throughout the wreckage, their faces twisted in horror and agony as they were catapulted into the void, were the bodies of the countless personnel manning the enemy platforms and vessels.
Out from one of the many adjoining corridors, a knot of Navy personnel and men in Elysian colors made their way towards them. Girard halted his conversation with his fellows, and nodded in the direction of the newcomers.
"Well, looks like she wasn't just blowing smoke," he said from under his breath. Postigo shrugged, hiking up his trousers and tightening his pistol belt. "And she brought friends, too."
As they approached, Girard spotted Lieutenant Maksachova conversing with his commanders and her fellow Lieutenant. They sported identical, semi-formal service attire, differing only slightly from their dress uniforms: instead of the rich blue coats, they opted for pressed, white blouses with their service ribbons displayed proudly on their chests. How the Imperial Navy loved its many uniforms.
Presently, a loud ka-thunk! issued from behind them. The chronometer above the hatch struck 05:00 and the mag locks disengaged, allowing it to hinge inward. Girard led the procession, making his way into the darkened chamber. Rows of dull, metal desks lined the small and wood paneled office, with a large pict-screen flanked by podiums at the head of the room. The stormtroopers filed themselves in first and claimed the front rows, exchanging heartfelt greetings with their commanders. The Navy women filed in quietly with their subordinates in tow.
Captain Mikhael Metzger, commander of the detachment's Specialist squads, made his way to the front of the room. Here was a man of average build and subdued demeanor, a far cry from the bog-standard Guard commander. A slim laspistol rested in its holster at his hip, and under his arm he clutched a battered dataslate. While he wore the high-end wargear with the same natural swagger as the rest of his men, Captain Metzger more closely resembled a newly tenured scholar or lesser hive noble, rather than a seasoned and elite warrior. As he stepped up to the podium he cleared his throat, beginning the proceedings with the casual and practiced cadence of an especially knowledgeable Administratum clerk. To treat him as such, however, would prove to be a grave and fatal error.
"Right then, let's get this started." As he spoke, the background conversation shut off in a snap. Girard and his men pulled their own ruggedized dataslates from their cargo pockets, styluses at the ready. The two Navy women cast quick, confused glances in the stormtroopers' direction, at the child-like obedience suddenly adopted by these boisterous warfighters. Captain Metzger glanced briefly around the room, dark eyes taking in everyone's measure in a moment.
"Perfect. As you all know by now, the naval engagement is finished, and the traitor fleet is on the run – our Navy comrades gave them a thrashing they won't soon forget. This means, of course, that boarding operations have been scrubbed from the registry." He looked to his slate and accompanying sheaf of documentation as he continued.
"This puts us ahead of schedule. The situation now: opposition forces are beginning a westward push across northern Vidal – that's the largest continent on Knossos, and where the majority of projected operations will be taking place." He reached into the podium, to a heavy interfacing cable which he plugged into his dataslate. The lights dimmed in the ready-room, and the device began to hum as its machine spirit communed with the classified network. The pict-screen behind him flared to life, portraying a dizzying array of parametric data, troop movements, and vid-screen footage depicting various atrocities being committed on Knossos's surface.
"Our mission: an isolated observatorium, high in the northeastern Vidalian Mountains. This is where the first distress signals were intercepted by Battlegroup Lambda, and the reason we're here as fast as we are. The facility functions as a sector-wide comms array, and a sensitive intelligence storage site as well. So far, they've been lucky – the Novum Tempestus, as the opposition calls themselves, has left them alone until the past few weeks sidereal. But with this westward push, it looks like their luck is about to run out. This site cannot fall to the enemy." Metzger gestured to satellite photos of the facility: a huddle of brick structures squatted in the pine-swathed mountains. Blast marks and signs of pitched battle were evident across the front of the compound, complete with the flame-gutted hulls of armored vehicles.
"Our Primary is a reinforce-and-hold; the defenders are a mix of civilians and what's left of the PDF garrison, all small arms with minimal anti-armor. The next hostile force projected to hit the facility is a mechanized company, with infantry carriers and fast-moving walker units. The armor is supported by large platoons of light infantry in basic kit, using standard small unit tactics and supported with crew-served weapons. The traitor PDF have merged with off-world fighters of still-unknown capability into one unified force, meaning a standard to moderate level of combat training throughout." Metzger paused, and swiped a finger across his dataslate. The pict-screen flickered away from the daunting amount of enemy forces spreading across the continent, to display illustrations of the opposition's foot soldiers. The images were lifted directly from propaganda reels, intelligence reports, and vid-feeds that showed the newly minted traitor armies in action.
"Here's our first look – make a note of these different uniforms. Anyone and everyone with this gear is considered hostile, and dropped on sight. No exceptions."
Girard took in the depictions of the enemy on Knossos. The original, woodland fatigues of the loyalist regiments had been discontinued, in favor of a tiger-striped khaki uniform with rust brown flak plates and field gear. Other, extremely grainy stills portion-marked with high level classification emblems showed masked, thuggish figures in charcoal-black fatigues sporting a variety of non-STC pattern weaponry.
"I'm transmitting the maps of the facility to your slates, full holo-renders. We've been blessed to have the Naval Intelligence cartography serfs working with us, this time around." Metzger nodded, and smiled briefly at the whistles and exaggerated wonder at such uncharacteristically good data.
"Recommendation is a light loadout, non-carapace as usual, with dedicated anti-armor munitions. Vaytsman and Weber's men are joining the Infiltrators from Captain Tobel's lot to knock down the polar defense batteries, while Chrix and Maxton's squads hit the fire control relays on the equator. Planetfall will by via Top-Drop from an air-to-orbit shuttle, straight down to the mountainside. The facility sits in a narrow gap in the surface batteries' fields of fire." Metzger now gestured to the Lieutenants and their three adjutants.
"Now, Naval Intelligence will be accompanying your squad to the surface – headed up by Lieutenant Maksachova and her team. They're to handle the technical side of the op. Their goal is a full data-grab of the facility's stacks, while you and yours hold the perimeter. They're a capable lot, and we're happy to have them." Metzger finished. His last statement was more of a warning against protesting the addition, rather than a true endorsement of the Navy personnel. Stormtrooper units were commonly attached to larger forces, but not often the reverse. Girard hoped that these sailors were up to the task.
"Any remarks from His Venerable Navy, before we continue?" Metzger said, gesturing to Lt. Maksachova. She took a breath, and shook her head:
"Nothing at this time, Captain." She said coolly. "I will notify your office of any alterations in the interim."
Metzger gave the floor to his Comms Chief, the burly and sleepy-faced Kalen Beleckis. As was his station, he delivered the "crunch", Elysian slang for the minutiae of mission planning: primary and tertiary vox frequencies, call-signs, contingency actions, the schedule for vox checks, and all manner of other dull but necessary information. As he finished, he turned to Metzger and gave a nod, before returning to his seat behind the podium.
"Thanks, Kalen." Metzger said, patting him on the shoulder as he passed. "Gentlemen, we drop in three standard days. Final preparations are at unit leaders' discretion. Emperor be with you."