On Knossos, when it rained it poured. Sheets of rain and buffeting winds punished Perjed's Landing with a mid-summer storm from the east. The surrounding pine forests swayed madly in the wind that swept down from the coast, hammering into the landing Imperial forces without mercy. Inside the concourse, the Elysian troops found little respite from the soaking rains.
Girard staggered under an icy barrage of water, cursing, spitting, and bringing up his arms in a hasty defense. High-pressure jets of stinging, purifying, chemically treated water rocketed from pack-mounted sprayer units and ground into his bare flesh, manned by slack-jawed Munitorum servitors clad in the local departmento's ubiquitous coveralls. The jets created a deafening roar in the tiled halls of the servant hygiene blocks, drowning out all other sound. Girard's men and the Navy team were undergoing compulsory detoxification rituals in the star port that they had only just seized from the enemy. Contact with xenos of any capacity was never without its ramifications; in the case of the stormtroopers and sailors currently tended to by the servitors and accompanying preachers, such treatment was a relative mercy. Citizens and troops the Imperium over knew the gruesome potential regarding contact with the impure.
Beside Girard, the lieutenant simply knelt forward, with her head down and her hands pressed to the floor in front of her as though in silent prayer. She absorbed the purifying barrage, water sluicing down her body as she remained motionless. Her blonde hair was slicked back against her head, and her flesh was a gleaming ivory tone in the floodlights. With her body laid bare to observation by the frosty light, Girard began to notice discreet signs of extensive augmetic modification: a small chrome interfacing plug here, a surgical seam there, who could even say her musculature was her own? The extent of her physical modifications was unknowable – even when stripped of her uniform and kit. His observations were swiftly arrested as the nearest servitor aimed its nozzle directly into his face, filling his mouth with the foam-flecked mixture.
Supported by an armed Commissarial detail, a pair of robed Ministorum preachers led the ritual while accompanied by a hovering servoskull that recorded the proceedings with a gleaming, socket-mounted picter unit. No matter where Girard squirmed, no matter where he turned to avoid the jets, the servitors' aim was unerring. All around him his men coughed, spluttered, and levelled their most colorful profanity across the expanse of slippery tile. Even over the noise, Girard could still make out some of the preachers' prayers of purification and resilience.
"...may He cast its holy gaze upon these humble servants and see the touch of the Alien upon their bodies." One preacher intoned, a wiry and greying man with tired, hooded eyes. "Relieve them of the foul humours that assail them." He stared into the middle distance, reciting the passages from memory, "Cleanse, and purify these fleshly vessels, that they may continue to serve the immortal God Emperor until their dying breath. We ask this, as with all things, in His holy name."
The preacher bowed his head, making the sign of the Aquila across his chest. The other preacher, swinging a smoking censer in a steady rhythm, gathered it up by the length of golden chain and smothered the embers inside. With the cleansing complete, the servitors' task management subroutines activated in their simple brains. The hoses shut off and foamy water dribbled from the sprayer units, leaving the stormtroopers coughing and cursing on the floor. The sound of dripping water mingled with the gurgling of the drainage grate at the room's center. "You are free to go, Guardsmen. Seek out your nearest medicae detachment if any… issues persist." The head preacher droned.
"The Emperor protects, father," Wulfhausen muttered, heaving himself up from the floor.
"As do antibiotics. His Imperial Majesty suffers not the careless fool, guardsman."
The servitors turned on their heels and filed out without a word, crossing the threshold back into the banks of lockers, sinks, and toilet stalls. The commissarial detail, a trio of cudgel toting Munitorum enforcers and their leader, lingered beside the exit. A smug, cigar-puffing Cadet Commissar led the brutes, scarcely of military age and trussed up in his spotless (yet conspicuously lacking in medals or other adornment) uniform. The head preacher stopped beside the youngster, curling his lip in disgust at the plumes of acrid cigar smoke. His hand shot out from within his draping vestments, cuffing the lad about the head with enough force to unseat the peaked cap. He let out a yelp of shock, flinching as the preacher snatched the cigar from his lips in one swift movement.
"Don't smoke that in here! You'll risk nullifying the ritual with your stink." The priest hissed, flicking the cigar to the floor and extinguishing it beneath his sandal-clad foot. He puffed up his chest and strode past the stunned young man, before muttering over his shoulder:
"Fragging half-wit."
Wulfhausen let out a great, booming laugh at the youngster and his cronies. He stepped gingerly over the raised threshold, feet patting softly on the tile as he returned to his gear. The Cadet Commissar's face went red, and he placed a hand on his hip holster in an attempt to intimidate the slab-muscled stormtrooper. If Wulfie or the others even noticed the amateurish sabre-rattling, they pointedly ignored it.
Presently, the doors to the shower block swung open with a clang. With their boots squeaking on the slick floor, Captain Metzger, Master Sergeant Beleckis, and Munitions Chief Lozan filed inside. They sported rain-breaker jackets that came to waist-level, the color of dry shale and glistening with beaded moisture. Behind them, their uniforms dark with accumulated rain, was another pair of Naval Intelligence troopers. Each man carried a pair of green duffle bags over their shoulders, and they stepped past the cadet commissar and his cronies without a passing care.
"Fresh and clean, back from the killing fields, eh lads?" Lozan beamed, depositing his bags on a nearby bench and slapping Solly on the shoulder.
As the Elysian detachment's munitorum liaison, Johannes Lozan took to his staff billet with the enthusiasm expected of a senior stormtrooper. However, it was no secret that he missed the thrill of tactical command – a fact that was, incidentally, also expected of a senior stormtrooper. As 2nd Squad's commanders laughed, joked, and greeted their men like old friends, Metzger addressed the detail:
"Evening, Cadet. Everything went as planned, yeah?" he asked, not bothering to turn in their direction. His words lacked any manner of harshness or condescension, but something altogether more humiliating: outright dismissal. In truth, Metzger had already put them from his mind, walking past them and toward his men.
"Of course, sir. Ministorum cleared the lot," his words chased after Metzger. The olive-suited thugs deflated at the sight of more – and higher ranked – stormtroopers (and the now-distinctive uniforms), robbed quickly of their foolish ideations of random bullying. Word of these ice-blooded killers had spread like a virus, and the enforcers knew when they were outmatched. Hierarchy and formal protocol be damned, picking one's battles wisely was essential to continued survival, especially as a crony of the Commissariat. As the munitorum gang left the shower block, thunder boomed outside. Strobe flickers of lightning cast long shadows through the high windows lining the bathing area.
"How's about a little gift parcel, hey? Catch," Beleckis grunted, heaving a pair of bags at Wulfie and Veidt. Each man dug into their bag, pulling out fresh uniforms that their leaders retrieved from their compartments aboard the Justicar. Girard pulled out a pair of black, all-purpose calisthenic trunks, nicknamed 'stranglers' by the Elysians. The small shorts were a tongue-in-cheek badge of honor, worn only by those who completed the brutal training regimens of the stormtrooper academies. As he made himself decent before his commanders, he turned to Metzger:
"How's Declan getting on?" he asked. Life was cheap in the Imperium, particularly in the Guard, but capable comrades in arms were more precious than any material wealth and had to be protected at all costs.
"Specialist Streeter is in good hands, Sergeant. Word is, the 'Sir is on his way to give the induction rites as we speak." said Metzger. Girard let out a pent-up breath.
"Glad to hear his body was deemed compatible,"
"Quite. Now, it still takes time to get the limb from the Aperturus Augmetica, and there are the treatments, of course. I suggest you all keep him in your prayers."
The rites to which they spoke referenced the private and ceremonial induction into the Argent Legion. It was a thriving honor society within the Elysian stormtrooper regiments, open to those troops maimed in the line of duty but still given a chance to continue their careers. Elysia's astronomical funding allowed for tailored, silver augmetic limbs that were the Legion's namesake, and forward deployed units kept an artificer attaché on hand to complete the specialized work. The trooper's ranking commanders performed the short ceremony, awarding the Seal of the Argent Legion alongside the standard Medallion Crimson. With any luck, Streeter would continue his career of death-dealing for many years to come.
"Well, we appreciate the gear drop, sir. What's our next move?" asked Girard. Metzger nodded, bringing up his slate.
"The General Staff is having their planetfall debrief tonight. Your team's... encounter, is going to change some things, I have no doubt – you are now the subject matter experts on the xenos threat here on Knossos. Congratulations." Metzger said.
"That means you'll be accompanying us to the debrief, Sergeant." Lozan added from behind.
"Save me a seat, Captain – I will be attending, as well," the lieutenant stepped from behind a row of lockers, shrugging on her uniform jacket.
"Naturally. Not to put too fine a point on things, but we may be relying on you two to give a thorough report on what happened down there." Metzger explained. "General Tarkov is a pragmatic sort, loves to hear directly from the 'men on the ground', as it were." He turned and muttered quietly to Beleckis and Lozan, and the two staffers left the shower block without a word.
"I have already prepared my report, so when the time comes I will be ready." The lieutenant buttoned her jacket and fished her dataslate from a thigh pocket.
"Excellent, then I'll leave you all to it. Your squad is hereby dismissed until further notice, Sergeant. I'll need you on standby here, however - I'd kit back up. I'll transmit the debrief location to your slate; watch for my ident sequence." Metzger exchanged a brief farewell to the gathered stormtroopers and took his leave.
Once the doors to the hygiene block eased shut, Johannsen let out a whistle.
"My my, what an honor and a privilege. A footslogging 'trooper rubbing shoulders with the upper crust," said Johannsen.
"Just keep an eye out for hors d'oeuvres, I'm frakking starving," Stern joked. An excited murmur settled over the men, at the prospect of 'tactically relocated' officer rations. Now fully dressed, Girard rolled up his towel and stuffed it in his flak pack. He heaved his flak carrier back on and slung his rifle across his chest. "Check in on Streeter, and I'll see what I can do,"
High in the concourse's uppermost galleries and offices, the Liberation's high command convened. Girard and the lieutenant strolled through the plush and carpeted thoroughfares that ringed the edges of the structure, blinking in the flashes of lightning that lit the rain-soaked windows. Outside, the landing operation continued in earnest: bulk landers eased themselves onto the flight lines, their floodlights and tail strobes creating a dizzying light show through the blurry glass. Beneath them, the outlines of tracked hauler units and cargo lorries raced to and fro, shipping freight to the dizzying array of load points, barrack units, chapels, and tech workshops.
Thank the frakking Throne we're out of that mess, Girard thought.
Back inside, the high-energy buzz of Imperial Ordos in action filled the space, and bustling crowds choked the corridors. Black-suited Administratum agents, munitorum staffers, and a kaleidoscopic mixture of military uniforms hurried about their work. Each man and woman had a task of the utmost importance to complete, some impatient commander or task master to appease, and could hardly help but see everyone around them as secondary to their own mission. For all their perceived importance and high station, the overwhelming majority of these stuffy non-coms still elected to give the heavily armed stormtrooper Navy lieutenant a wide berth.
"Right here, Concilium is just ahead." She pointed across Girard, down an adjoining hallway positively packed with dignitaries and officers. With a walking intelligence cogitator at his side, Girard had little need for pathfinding on his own here. They pushed through the gathered crowd and made their way inside.
The Concilium chamber was more akin to a ballroom or gala hall, rather than a space designed for military briefings. Three concentric rings in a mezzanine arrangement surrounded a dance floor at the lowered center, and along the rings were cloth-topped tables still arranged for a formal gathering that never came to pass. Down at the dance floor, Mechanicus serfs were setting up a strategium-grade holo display module. Robed enginseers fussed at the installers, ordering cable bundles this way and that, all the while projecting gentle puffs of incense from bellows-like devices clasped in bionic fists. Up above, the space was already filling with delegations from the Imperial Guard regiments descending upon Knossos. These men of war shared company with the numerous ordos, rogue trader crews, and even select organizations independent from the Imperial war machine. Through the milling crowds, Girard made his way toward a familiar huddle of polycam uniforms, nudging the lieutenant's shoulder and pointing in their direction.
"Looks like our higher ups are becoming fast friends, eh ma'am?" he said quietly.
"So it would seem, yes. And, when we are away from such gatherings of the brass, I believe we may dispense with some of the usual formalities. You and your men may simply refer to me as 'Mack', as many of my own colleagues do. I do prefer to keep matters light – believe it or not." Her mouth turned up into a rare smirk, as she shoulder-checked through a harassed-looking adept.
"As you wish, Mack."
The two made their way down to the middle ring, toward their respective command elements. Among a naval Captain and his subordinate Commanders, Lt. Gianos sat with Armsmen Verenti and Delk, her arm done up in a recently redressed sling. The Elysian commanders all wore the same manner of uniform as Girard and his men, and in place of combat kit each carried their personal sidearms. Girard spied his commanding officer leant forward and conversing with the Navy folk, his gleaming augmetic arm resting against the tabletop. Standing to either side of the tables were the Colonel's bodyguards: Sgt. Eysen, the beloved enlisted everyman, and Captain Asch, who surpassed even Veidt in aristocratic pedigree.
"Come on now son, have a seat here," Colonel Pierce called out, giving the table a quick pat with his inorganic arm. Girard and Mack continued forward, taking their offered seats. Girard edged past a matronly looking woman in modest noble dress, seated adjacent to his commanders and alone, save for a grizzled, lightly armored bodyguard. He took a seat beside Major Roth, Pierce's executive officer, a man who by all accounts looked more fitted to a Commissariat propaganda reel than a special warfare officer billet. Mack took her seat beside Sergeant Major Engelmann, a compact and leathery veteran that regarded her with only nominal awareness.
"And just in time, too. General Tarkov and his little mob should be here any moment." Roth said, idly staring down his aquiline nose as he dug a persistent speck of dirt from beneath a fingernail.
Girard took in the scene around him, noting the various dress uniforms of the regiments he recognized, and committed to memory those that he did not. Planetary liberations were far from a straightforward affair, even at the best of times. With a world like Knossos, a world that had turned so wholly from the Imperium, there was no government left to salvage and precious little resistance to muster in its defense. Instead, the fate of this world would lie in the hands of the liberating armies, foreign men willing (or not) to fight and die in the name of the Emperor and his realms.
Girard had only been able to gain nominal knowledge of local military actions in this sector of the Imperium, but he did know that Knossos was one of many embattled worlds being retaken all along the edges of what was more often referred to as the Vermillion Veil. Rumors abound of continued campaigns into the embattled star clusters of the Veil, of operations of a truly historic scale. The usual glory-hound motivations. These gathered officials were no doubt aiming for a place in the spotlight of Segmentum Command now that Imperial operations were picking up speed, trying to secure themselves a place in the innermost circles early on. What exactly would come of Knossos's liberation – and indeed the future of the Vermillion Veil – was any man's guess, but in such times, it most certainly did not pay to hedge one's bets.
Roth was proved uncannily correct. Moments after his declaration, a pair of guardsmen clad in the tan and ochre armor of the Seige Breakers entered the room, their long-barreled lasguns aimed at the floor. They kept their full-face helmets fixed to their chest webbing, revealing thick-muscled and buzzed-headed guardsmen beneath.
"Ah, just so." Roth murmured.
"Assembly, attention on station! Pay your respects!" The first man through the doors bellowed over the buzz of conversation. At once, every man and woman in the room leapt to their feet, snapping to attention or making the sign of the Aquila across their chests.
"The Emperor Protects!" the room vibrated with the response. The guardsmen assumed their posts at either side of the entrance, weapons at the ready.
In the silence came Field Marshal Tarkov, high commander of the Knossos liberation, striding in with a score of advisors and staff in tow. A fireteam of Seige Breaker guardsmen in full kit rushed out ahead, weapons at the alert stance as they fanned out across the upper ring. Behind him came a gaggle of black-suited tacticians, Administratum analysts, and senior commissars, trailing a group of officers and staff. Tarkov wore the flat grey dress uniform of the Tarsus regiments, edged with gold piping and decorated with tidy stacks of ribbons, medals, and badges. He stopped at the first staircase leading down, taking the measure of everyone in attendance.
"As you were." He drawled, his voice thick with his native accent.
The assembled brass quickly took their seats. The general took careful, clipped steps downward, removing his hat and revealing a buzzed head of salt-and-pepper hair. He was, altogether, an unremarkable man, of average build and lacking any overt enhancements. While decidedly more stoic and rigid than his own commanders, Girard guessed at a similarly frightening reputation. If one trait marked him as unique in any way, it was that Tarkov clearly still valued retaining high fitness standards – something that a great many senior commanders would forego in their advanced years.
"All this, so very quickly – the Lord General himself tells me he is pleased. But let us not lose our momentum – are the Ordos prepared to give their reports?" he asked, not bothering to look up as he descended to the bottom center of the chamber.
His staff dispersed along tables and artificer stations that ringed the display module. Girard adjusted his rifle's resting place between his knees, letting out a slow breath. A protracted strategic planning session was about to begin – possibly a dull and tedious affair for many of the other officers present, but a peek behind the curtain of high command was a rare gift for an ambitious stormtrooper sergeant like him. Despite the brutality of the day, and the exhaustion creeping into his bones, Girard's foot tapped at the floor with nervous energy. He quietly slid his dataslate onto the table and unhooked the stylus, intent on absorbing every screed of data presented tonight.
Dry, but essential, logistics reports came first. They detailed the reinforcement of Perjed's Landing, plans for reactivation of key industrial sites across the planet, and even presented civilian aid campaigns and Acts of Consolation for the fractured loyalist Knossos regiments. As the reports and proposals dragged onward, it became apparent that this world was part of a much grander plan. Much of Mack's explanation below the star port was given credence: Knossos was a spectacularly resource-rich world, as explained in a Tech Priest's monotone presentation, and its position at the edge of the Vermillion Veil made it a critical location for supplying further actions in the sector. As such, talk of full-scale orbital bombardment and wars of attrition - a cornerstone of Imperial warfighting doctrine - were absent from the proceedings. Knossos and its infrastructure were to be spared the full, apocalyptic wrath of the Imperial Guard. Within reason, of course.
All the while, Tarkov sat and listened. The tacticians, seated to his left, scribbled furiously at their slates, styluses filling the scribe applications with walls of handwritten text. Periodically, another officer in Tarsus dress would lean in to whisper clarifying remarks. The commissars stood rigidly behind the senior staff's table, faces hidden from higher angles of observation by their iconic headwear. After a Rogue Trader captain finished his report on his fleet's hauling of specialized equipment through a series of notoriously fickle warp routes, the officer beside the general rose to his feet and cleared his throat.
"Thank you, Captain." He nodded to the richly appointed Rogue Trader, before turning to address the room. "It is at this time that we require ordos and departmentae not associated with prosecution of military operations to take their leave. Follow-on tasks and orders will be relayed accordingly. Thank you for your time, and may the Throne guide you." He said with a quick, nominally enthusiastic bow.
The packed tables and upper galleries of the concilium surged with activity as the preening nobility and civilian guests made their way to the doors. The sudden exodus left the upper ring almost deserted, save for a smattering of tables occupied by late arrivals. Girard noted one group directly up and across from his spot on the middle ring: two particularly grim looking adepts in dark civilian attire, seated to either side of a man some years their junior– likely some local sector nobility, the eldest son of a particularly successful governor learning the ebb and flow of strategic planning. A curious lad, but Girard's attention was returned to the center of the room as the general spoke:
"Now that the lords and ladies have left us in peace, we can begin this campaign proper, yes? Tarkov said in a more jovial tone, his demeanor relaxing noticeably now that the session was one of purer warrior spirit. A soft ripple of laughter went through the room, dropping away as soon as he continued.
"To business: First Phase commanders, make your reports." he announced. Scattered groups of Guard officers stepped to their respective railings.
First came the commanders of the Valparaiso squadrons and air assault troops. The infantry commander gave a quick and thorough account of the battle for the star port, smoothing his olive drab uniform and adjusting his jet black beret. Elsewhere in the region, the fighter squadrons had achieved air superiority in a show of overwhelming force, all in perfect concert with the last of the orbital batteries falling to the Elysians' assault. The casualties were minimal across their portion of the continent, as the Novum Tempestus air forces struggled to respond to their lost orbital battle. Next, a grey-suited Tarsus officer stood and flashed a rigid salute. In his terse, guttural accent, he explained that the star port and the observatorium was fully secured by one of their heavy infantry regiments, and that the bulk of their troops were en route to the enemy's coastal strongholds to the east.
Next came a thick-set Major of the Reyado armored regiments, resplendent in his red, high-collared coat and white trousers. He kept his white and gold-leafed kepi under his arm while he announced the ahead-of-schedule movements of the armored regiments, with the Tarsus troops and Valparaiso fliers advancing in concert. Mass formations of battle tanks, mobile artillery batteries, field guns and heavy troop transports were barreling down the abandoned highways and freight lines, bound for the strongest concentrations of traitor forces. Forward bases would be constructed at a suitable distance from the enemy stronghold, courtesy of the Siege Auxilia Corps.
As the Reyado officer stepped away, a robed and sallow-skinned man approached the railing. He rose from a small detail of more soldierly men, clad in more militaristic attire the color of wet silt. Initially, Girard mistook him for a lower-ranked Ministorum cleric, given the attire and lack of gaudy holy symbols. He then announced that his charges had disembarked from orbital prison ships and would arrive a number of days ahead of the combined arms assault. This man was a Prefect Penatante of the Minauros Penal Legions, cannon fodder conscripts drawn from a local prison colony. It was a decidedly darker side of Imperial warfare, and one that Girard and his men had rarely seen in practice – certainly not on the scale that it was being implemented here. Even from across the concilium, it was clear that the man took distinct pleasure in announcing the meat-grinder engagement that awaited his teeming hordes of convicts. With the first phase updates completed, the general moved on.
"Now, reports from His Imperial Navy tell us of a disturbing discovery, here beneath our feet." Everyone inched forward just a bit in their seats as Tarkov continued. "A band of xeno witch-warriors was found tampering with the machine intelligence at the heart of the star port. I understand that those who made contact are here with us, this evening?" He turned his gaze directly toward Girard's table, and Mack's commander whispered something to her before she rose to her feet. Presently, a low murmur ran throughout the room; disturbing news, indeed.
"That is correct, sir. Lieutenant Kseniya Maksachova, Naval Intelligence Field Division. I was attached to Sgt. Burkhalter's squad during the seizure of Perjed's Landing." She stepped forward, tugging sharply on his sleeve as she passed. He rose with her to stand at the railing of the middle ring, rifle slung across his chest.
"Please, continue." Tarkov gave a quick beckoning motion. They made their way around the ring, towards the stairs leading down.
"I have prepared a full report. Perhaps showing, as well as telling, might further illuminate matters?" She said, drawing a slate from her webbing. After a brief back-and-forth, the Field Marshal's adjutant waved them forward.
"As has been said, Sgt. Burkhalter and I encountered a squad-size element of the depraved Eldar corsairs during the execution of our mission set. Said troops had breached the outer defenses of a Mechanicus data vault beneath the star port." She began as she and Girard travelled down while up above, the ocular units of two Tech Priests flared with indignation.
"The xenos we dispatched belonged to a comparatively young splinter faction, known in their vernacular as the Kabal of the Void Serpent. Since my office first became aware of their existence, their movements were limited to minor fleet actions and hit-and-run raids on orbital stations across the Florian Bulwark. This is the first time we have observed surface operations on an Imperial world – the odds of us stumbling into one another are, as you all can imagine, astronomical."
Mack reached over the display module at the center of the room and plugged a dangling cable into her dataslate. Startup routines, displayed in jarring resolutions, materialized into the air above the device. Quickly, the devices' spirits communed, scrubbing the images into crystal clarity. She swiped through numerous screens, casting astro-navigational data and multimedia images into the air for all to see. The murmuring renewed with vigor as imagery of the xenos' vessels appeared, glittering daggers of midnight darkness only visible by post-edited outlining. Also in the air was grainy surveillance footage and recordings of the battle in the data stacks. In the rapt audience, Girard saw the woman and her bodyguard exchanging words, leant forward in fascination when the footage displayed his duel with the drug-addled warrior.
"These troops were carrying sophisticated data-siphoning equipment, indicating that this was an intelligence gathering operation. Their range of movements has continued to shrink over the past solar months – they are closing in on their objective, and it seems fate has brought us together on Knossos."
"And what is this objective?" Tarkov grunted. Mack turned to face him, hands clasped behind her back.
"Unclear at this time, sir. Communion with the vault's machine intelligence showed that their intrusion attempts were directed at registries of religious and archaeological sites on Knossos. Beyond that, and apparent cooperation with the Novum Tempestus, we are still collecting data." She finished, leaving the Concilium in a disturbed silence. Tarkov turned in his seat to face Girard.
"Anything from you, Sergeant?" He said, eyebrow raised. Girard swallowed hard.
"Sir, my men and I have faced this type of xenos before. There will be no more chance meetings for us. This lot lacks numbers, even by their standards, and may go to ground soon." He paused, as the General seemed to find the understatement humorous. "Or, they may even pick up the pace now that the pressure's on. They'll know that we're on to them. Either way, my men and I are ready to hunt them down to the last. Sir." He said with a nod. Tarkov's face split into a toothy, recaf-stained grin. He wagged an approving finger at the battle-hungry stormtrooper.
"At ease, Sergeant. Your dedication, it is good. But in moving forward we must also avoid undue haste – there is still a whole other war to fight against these Novum Tempestus dogs." He spat the enemy's name, adding in a venomous curse in his native tongue. Girard remained silent and nodded again. He wasn't stupid, he knew his presence at these proceedings was allowed only as a passing curiosity. Now was no time to contradict a General – particularly in the presence of senior Commissars with such prominently displayed bolt pistols as these.
A large, well-bred, and heavily muscled man approached the railing in a uniform Girard didn't recognize. He was the very picture of stuffy high command: A deep tan and strong build indicated a steady supply stream and active operational experience. The rich purple of his uniform coat glittered with countless commendations, and his cream-colored trousers were pressed with enough starch to stop a macrocannon round.
"Field Marshal, if I may." The man said in a clipped, High Gothic timbre. It was the sort of interruption that heralded cleverly disguised condescension and utterly undisguised superiority. Girard already disliked the man. Tarkov gave a sigh that Girard was sure only those in his immediate vicinity could hear.
"Colonel Jampson." He breathed.
"This is a most disturbing development, but one to which my command is more than ready to attend. The 847th is-" Jampson began.
"The 847th already has its mission, Colonel. The Ancillius Archipelago is a critical step in the liberation." He said with a decisive chopping motion. "The xenos' time will come, yet we must not forget the task at hand – Knossos has turned from the Emperor's light and justice must be swift, for a great many enemies await us yet." said Tarkov, more to the congregation than to Jampson specifically. Suitably chastised, the purple-clad Colonel stepped away without a word.
"Lieutenant, Sergeant, thank you for your time. This leaves us much to discuss." The Field Marshal said, effectively dismissing them. Girard followed Mack back to their seats, and the planning session continued anew. Matters of xeno hunting were absent from the ensuing talks. The reasoning went that, while hunting down the detachment of the sadistic Dark Eldar was a high priority, it also did not absolve an entire world of open rebellion and – most egregious of all – misuse of an Imperial world's vast natural resources. During a lull, Colonel Pierce assuaged Mack & Girard's growing frustration with the cryptic assurance that, as the General said, their time would come.
The upper halls of the concourse were once again flooded with traffic as the Concillium emptied into the pre-dawn gloom. Girard stood to one side of the double doors, listening to the excited chatter as Mack convened with her superiors across the hall. He struggled to close the zipper on his flak pack, into which he had scooped an armful of plasti-sheathed sandwiches from an unattended serving tray. Presently, he felt an augmetic hand on his shoulder, and turned to face Captain Asch. He looked ever the dashing warrior, and one of the Colonel's close protection men, clasping a matte black, heavily accessorized Godwyn De'az pattern bolter in his silver hands. The high end augmetics, crafted in the slender likeness of a feudal world knight's gauntlets, ran up into his field-rolled sleeves, and were inlaid with swirls of golden filigree.
"Damn fine show, Sergeant – you and your men do us proud, as always." He beamed, pearly straight teeth nearly gleaming in the dim corridor. He patted the extended stock of his weapon appreciatively.
"Oh anytime, sir." He smiled. Kind words, but officers' sentiments always seemed tinged with an out-of-touch air.
"Glad to hear it. By the way, saw to your man's induction with the Boss – tough little bastard, that one." He added, before holding a hand to his vox bead. "Speaking of, he'd like a word with you and the Navy lass," Asch said, side-stepping to clear a path for their commander.
Colonel Pierce exited the Concilium with his staff. Upright and in better lighting, he was revealed as a burly, grizzled man in his late forties. Along with being a seasoned commander, he was also a veteran of hundreds of direct-combat actions, as evidenced by the portion of his face replaced with silver bionics. He took a step away from his group and toward Girard, extending his metallic hand in greeting.
"I'm to assume that was your first experience in the upper echelons, hey?" Pierce asked, the plating surrounding his bionic eye glinting as he leaned forward.
"That it was, sir." Girard shook his commander's hand, glancing down at the script 'Ave Imperator' las-engraved along the forearm.
"We all appreciate your spirit – thought the old goat was too tough to smile." He said.
"Always happy to serve, sir."
"Well if that's the case, then let's get to it." He waved Mack and her seniors over, and they all made their way across the hall into an abandoned logistician's office. Metzger slipped inside before Asch and Eysen shut the door.
"Right then, the good Captain here's agreed to back me on an integration proposal to the General staff." He gestured to the Navy man, one Captain Marek, beside Mack and Gianos. "We'll attach a team of his operatives with each of our squads. Once the armor reaches the coast, they're going to need the enemy's longer-range guns destroyed if they hope to get through intact, and Naval reconnaissance will be essential." Pierce explained, before Captain Marek interjected.
"Orbital guns are down, but planet-side artillery and anti-air is still a problem if we mean to take the citadels in the heart of Gantos. We'll need precision orbital strikes, low-yield, to clear a path for them. We have a line to the Justicar's gun decks – you get us in range, we call down the thunder." he said. Gantos was the largest metropolis at the eastern coast and the center of resistance on Knossos, and as such was host to a daunting military force of Novum Tempestus troops.
"That's the official plan, for the records." said Pierce, turning to Metzger. Girard's brow furrowed as he watched his commanders all shut off their dataslates, remove the power cells, and stash them all in a filing drawer at the back of the room. Mack did the same with her slate, already wise to what was happening. Girard quickly relinquished his slate to Metzger.
"Like I said, that's the official report. We have other plans, and it's best if only the Captain and I knew the source. Once the 'brains get a lock on these xenos' movements, Mikhail, your teams will move to intercept. This is a full-on, Strike Force operation we're running in Gantos, and the same pertains to your mission. I want you and your boys on this, personally." Pierce leaned against the center desk, crossing his arms. "Understood, sir." Metzger said, in his typical deadpan. Girard's heartbeat hiked up a notch as he realized the need for secrecy. He was no stranger to deniable operations, yet when they did occur, he couldn't help but feel the thrill of it all.
"The liberation fleet's been screaming down comms non-stop on every spectrum since we landed, so reports have been slow to arrive. But whatever you found in that vault, Lieutenant, it has people pissing their britches. People above the General staff, possibly even past the battlegroup and the Office of the Lord General himself." Pierce said.
"The Void Serpents are getting close to whatever they're looking for, command needs to start pissing their britches. They're not a big Kabal, which makes them more dangerous here. They'll fight like cornered animals, and if their orbital raids are any measure of their cruelty, well…" Marek trailed off, suppressing a shudder.
"I just wish I possessed the means to break the crypto-shells around the vault's core drives. Our position would be much clearer." Mack said wistfully.
"If only. At any rate, I'll be hearing back about the proposal from the General staff tonight. Anything else, Colonel?" asked Marek. Pierce shook his head. Mack and Captain Marek retrieved and powered on their slates, and left the office. Though the gap in the door, Asch and Eysen still maintained their vigil. The Colonel spoke frankly to his men, his bionic eye shining in the low light:
"Gents, trust me when I say, this is of vital importance. The Segmentae commands of Tempestus and Pacificus have wanted to break this deadlock with the Veil for centuries, and if we succeed here, they may get the chance. We move as soon as word comes down from above. See to it." said Pierce. He pushed off from the desk, retrieved his slate, and left the office. Metzger turned to Girard:
"You heard him, Sergeant. Let's see to it."