Black Heart
"You recognize this thing?" Sarthis asked. The lieutenant still had his gun trained on the skitarius's head.
Merrick nodded. "He is, or was, Talros, a captain in the Arbites. The Logis's cogboys dragged him off. Didn't know what happened to him after that.
The skitarius spoke, "This unit was salvaged from the biomaterial of Talros. It has been repurposed to serve the Omnissiah's means."
"Corsis told us that Talros had outlived his usefulness," Hurst said. "We thought you were dead."
"All flesh is useful in service to the Omnissiah," Talros stated, "This unit will purge the traitors within the Forge."
Kex spoke through the servitor next to Talros, "You have the choice of aiding us willingly, Lieutenant, or we will be forced to make you comply. It would be in your best interest to cooperate."
Remer grumbled, "Are they always like this?" he remarked to nobody in particular.
"Pretty much, Len," said Merrick, "You play by their rules or not at all." He turned back to Sarthis, "Lieutenant, I suggest we cooperate. We don't need more people shooting at us, and we're running behind schedule."
Sarthis weighed his options, and sighed. "Fine. Kex, we accept your offer. But we need to hurry. The army is moving on the forge as we speak, and if we don't eliminate the Magos and secure the core before they arrive, the damage could be catastrophic."
"Agreed, lieutenant. We will provide transportation. Transmitting now." There was a slight pause, "Confirmed. Two grav-sleds are en route. Meet us below so we can plan our assault."
Magos Dolthem's world was crumbling; his command sanctum shook from the steady thud of Imperial guns. Three hundred tech-priests desperately worked to rally the forge's failing defenses. While the priests themselves stood static, the data transfer signals flew rapidly across the room. There were no less than a dozen separate breaches in the priesthood's battle line, and Imperial forces were swiftly pressing their advantage. With the aid of the loyalist Mechanicum's Myrmidons, Angel Forge would soon fall back into the Imperium's hands. That was something Dolthem would not allow.
The Forge was too valuable to him and his benefactors. They had held out for months, and they would continue to do so. His followers were not defeated yet. As the Guard pushed them back, the priesthood's supply lines shortened. With each inch his followers ceded, their defense strengthened. The Imperium would break upon their lines. He would see the forge ground into dust and scattered to the eight winds of Chaos before letting those dogmatic loyalists claim their prize.
The Magos received a priority signal just as a fresh round of shelling struck the forge's outer crust. A sense approximating satisfaction grew in his chest.
Preparations were almost complete. Soon, the Imperial curs would face the true power of the Forge.
The grav-sled shuddered under the troopers' feet. Remer's hair, drenched with sweat, clung to his neck like a wet towel. The closer they came to Angel Forge's center, the warmer it became. The vaulted ceilings of the underground manufactorum were obscured by a fog of steam and smoke. The harsh orange light of the furnaces below made Remer feel like they were flying through the fiery hells themselves.
Ahead, the ceiling of the forge erupted in a shower of rockcrete and steel. Remer craned his neck, trying to make out individual specks in the debris. Some of them might have been people, falling through the earth. He pushed the thought aside, no need to go through that again. He looked away.
He didn't trust Kex's loyalists. He knew he wasn't alone in that sentiment, yet here they were. Some wore their crimson hoods up to hide their faces, but others didn't, baring their extensive augmetics to the world. One noticed his glance and returned a stare. Unnerved, Remer took a heightened interest in inventorying his restocked ammunition.
As they skimmed along the assembly line, the forces loyal to the late Logis swelled, with more grav sleds joining their impromptu fleet. Before long, dozens of sleds fell into line, each weighed down with a full contingent of skitarii. The Mechanicus's response time put the guardsmen to shame. There was something to be said for instantaneous communication. Not enough to make Remer envy their newfound allies, of course, but a welcome boon given their current situation.
Even with their numbers, Remer knew the traitors had more. The target seemed unreachable. Kex was adamant they could break through, though. In the distance, the massive globe loomed larger and larger. It dominated the horizon, really.
Just ahead, however, was a more immediate threat.
The grav-sleds skimmed across a vast assembly line. It was an enormous, flat belt of rockcrete a quarter kilometer wide, much like the city thoroughfares of Angel Hive's Capital Spire. At regular intervals, servitor-run production stations sat dormant, an orchard of metal tress, construction armatures lying limp. Unfinished tank frames sat like boulders in the barren field.
Beyond the iron forest, lay a barricade, manned by a considerable complement of hereteks. The emplacement bristled with weaponry. And they were already shooting.
Before even Kex's loyalists could react, a Rogal Dorn kicked off the engagement by incinerating a grav-sled with a single shot. A portable lascannon mounted on another sled returned fire, lancing the tank's turret from its hull with mechanical precision. The sled took a sharp dip and came to a halt between two station rows. On cue, the skitarii riding in Remer's sled dismounted, firing accurate bursts before even hitting the ground.
"Off the sleds, men!" roared Sarthis, two ships over. "Form fireteams and advance!" Remer slotted a fresh drum into his grenade launcher and leapt over the sled's railing. Next to him, Garrett and Serrt rushed to one of the production servitors, setting up their stubber's tripod. The other Daredevils hugged whatever cover they could get behind. Sarthis, Landomar and Goldemar had the rest of 226 form up behind a tank hull, bare metal awaiting a coat of paint.
"No big deal," Remer muttered as shots whipped overhead, "Twenty-three Vendolanders against an entire forge."
"Are you going to fire that thing or just keep talking to yourself?" snapped Mathis. The big man traded rounds with the barricade, dipping between servitor stations as he and the others moved up.
Remer steeled himself and rounded the deactivated bot, launcher held high. Three high arcing shots, all fragmentation shells. Two fell short, but the third scored a bullseye, landing right on top of the barricade and raking the cogboys with shrapnel. Kippler was quick to capitalize on the chaos, sniping two more targets with clean headshots.
Overhead, six grav-sleds were providing cover fire, hovering across the assembly line and peppering the traitor position. The loyalists were good, exceptional really, but so were their opponents. A second Rogal Dorn rolled up and took out another sled in midair. The burning heap careened into the ground, taking out half a dozen servitor stations before screeching to a flaming halt.
On either side of the Vendolanders, the tech-guard advanced, heedless of the casualties they were taking. Remer didn't care. Only Vendoland mattered. 226 Commando took the center thrust, slowly but surely pressing forward, not giving the hereteks a clean shot, and taking any chances that presented themselves. That was the difference, Len reckoned. Their supposed "deficiencies" were their strength. A machine either worked or it didn't, with no room for variation. But a proper human was unpredictable. Even the fastest cogboy wouldn't properly guess an irrational human's actions right every time.
The boss was at the front, as usual. Merrick and Hurst were laying down one hell of a lightshow. Even Alek managed to score a few solid hits. Two more grenades fired in, two more hits. Down to his last one, Remer aimed for the barricade again, looking to widen the gap.
Shots pinged off of the servitors, exploding bits of metal and tubing. Remer ducked through a shower of sparks and threw himself behind a tank carcass. He was down to three drums, and his flamer tank was still spent from the day before. He still had his pistol tucked away in its holster. Kalan's stubber chugged lead downrange, forcing the cogboys down behind the parapet. Sarthis pulled the commandos forward, firing snapshots as they went. On either side, the Mechanicum loyalists also swept forward.
They would have taken the barricade in moments, if the sky hadn't decided at that moment to begin falling.
A sudden groan of protesting metal assaulted Remer's ears, overwhelming the sound of battle. There was a pause in the fighting as both sides looked up. The forge's surface crust was breaking apart. A colossal chunk of crust the size of a leviathan command carrier was coming down right on top of them.
"Back, back!" Sarthis shouted over the vox, barely audible. The hereteks were pulling out, abandoning the barricade. Kex's men were doing the same.
Grav-sleds that hadn't yet been shot down swept in to grab the loyalists. 226 commando got on one of the last ones before peeling away from the oncoming rock. Remer looked back at the skitarii left behind. One of them was Talros. They didn't run, there was no point. The entire assembly line, barricade and all, were crushed under a million tonnes of steel.
A massive plume of ash and dust erupted from the collapse. Above the destruction, Kex voxed Sarthis, "Casualty report, Lieutenant." The skitarius's voice was the same neutral tone it always was.
Sarthis panted as he surveyed his sled, laden with Vendolanders. "Twenty-three, all accounted for. No casualties here, thank the Emperor. You?"
"Two hundred and seven killed, thirty-nine disabled. Eighty-one skitarii still operational. Acceptable losses."
Sarthis was incredulous at Kex's blunt response, but he kept his dismay from showing. "Are we still going through with this? Do you have enough troops left?"
"An opportunity has presented itself, Lieutenant. Though it pains me to witness our forge in this state, the destruction has cleared the way for us. The assault will go ahead as planned. The Machine Altar is open to us."
There was the whine of high powered turbine engines overhead. Valkyries and Vulture gunships were flooding into the forge through the newly punctured ceiling. The backwash blew over Sarthis's face. His men were weary, but they still had their resolve. There was nothing left to say. They weren't turning back now.
"Kex, take us in."
Tempestor Varga's men cut a swath through the skitarii lines. The Prime's Valkyrie had been shot down on approach to the Forge's center, but he had managed to get most of his scions out before the ship crashed. From there it had been a running battle through the warrens of the manufactorum, facing ever increasing resistance as they neared the target. Skitarii forces were bringing out their heavy guns now, with massive Praetorians forming mobile fire support platforms for the numerous hyspasist foot soldiers.
His mind was racing, a result of the satrophine combat stims pulsing through his veins. Acutely aware of his surroundings, he and his stormtroopers rushed through the entry hatch of a guardhouse near the base of the data core, clearing out the interior in seconds. It was all the heat sinks could do to keep their gun barrels from melting as they ripped through the traitors on full auto.
The scions' helmets were equipped with the best sensor packages available to the Imperium's armed forces. The moment the groundside army had breached the outer crust of the Forge, Varga knew exactly what had happened. He flipped through his visor's targeting system with a few specific blinks. The drugs pumping through is system kept his eyes hydrated, removing the need to blink involuntarily. You blinked and you were dead.
His vox operator relayed information on allied troop movements, corroborating with his sensor data. Friendlies were inbound, ready to bring the hammer down on the traitors. They needed to be in and out before the ground pounders reached the enemy command center. The surface force had been beaten by overwhelming force from the Imperium, and they were moving underground to secure the Forge. Or, more likely, smash it to pieces.
Moving past the guardhouse, the scions were confronted with a sloped embankment that cradled the Forge's heart. The sphere sank into the crater, and it was surrounded by hundreds of skitarii, ranks formed and guns at the ready. Varga didn't even need to tell his men what to do. On cue, twenty scions unleashed a withering fusillade of hellgun rounds, covering the other twenty as they prepped their launchers. Ten missile troopers and their loaders marked their targets on Varga's scanner. He blinked twice rapidly, confirmation to fire.
The missiles spiraled towards the enemy ranks, splintering into antipersonnel airburst fragments. Hyspasist tech-guard were cut down by the dozens, while the praetorians again moved forward to engage with their heavy weaponry. Another volley of missiles knocked out two of the heavy support constructs. All the while, Varga's men kept firing, heedless of the skitarii's savage return fire.
One, two, five, eight. More and more-tech guard dropped under the hail of fire. Varga ordered a general advance, sweeping his volley gun across the enemy while running at a full tilt. They were breaking through.
The Prime's sensor package blared suddenly. Incoming fire from a new angle. It wasn't directed at the scions, though. A wing of grav-sleds came in low, pummeling the skitarii forces. The thrum of their engines made the air shake. Reinforcements, Varga gestured to his men. Guardsmen and non hostile tech-guard. A closer inspection made him realize something more significant. He recognized the uniforms.
Competition.