Light streamed across the barren surface, slowly at first…like a soft stream of deep red, adding a tint to huge glass domes that housed the populous. The signs of waking inhabitants gave the appearance of lights across the planet, making the whole thing look like a giant red Christmas tree. But there was no sweet candy hanging from the branches and the angel on top was the Emperor of Mankind, the saviour of the race and the faith at the heart of every citizen of the Imperium. He was everywhere…his eyes opened as the two biospheres came to life; one for living in, the other for making weapons for the war effort. As he took a breath, advanced machines inhaled the deadly atmosphere of this barren world, unprocessed gasses blown back out producing a low humming like that of the Astronomicon - the song of a million psykers, showing the safe routes through the warp of space travel. Five rows of carriages stretched out across the stark landscape, like a hand carrying the workers to the factories. The whole world shook with the vibrations of machines as the potential destructiveness crept over the world.
But as the morning came the light flowed hard and fast across the wastelands, filling even the vast canyon of Valles Marineris …now seeping with ruby light. Within this valley, Antov woke as the redness reached him through the tightly shut storage container…muttering a prayer to the Throne for keeping him alive another night he pressed upwards against the multitude of frosty blankets he had packed himself in the trunk with. The nights here are cold, below zero cold…the days aren't exactly peachy, but bearable. He was humbly thankful that true faith had led him to an abandoned building which looked like it dated back to the initial teams who came to build what was now the habitats for munitions factories and their workers.
It had been 2 days since he was left to die on this world, unbelievably the rest of his covert strike team had defected…they asked him to join, the enemy paid well.
"Emperor's Throne Nickoladze, Humanity is our race…they are the enemy, I beg you to cast out the doubt from your heart and find true faith in the Emperor before you fall beyond redemption…""Our race has sent hundreds like you and I to our deaths, to die for the better of that corpse-emperor…not to better ourselves! Let go of your beloved wish of what we are building, the Imperium is a dying concept…"
"You are no longer a son of our His Grace, you are tainted…maybe not visually, but I can feel the warp filling your mind with hate and lies. But, I will make your death swift…in respect for your service thus far."
A second squad member, now just another faceless heretic as far as humanity was concerned, moved behind him, placing a small las-pistol to the side of his head.Antov had kicked back hard…snapping the knee of the man, falling with him; Antov rolled along the floor to bring the injured man on top. He heard the light cracking of repeated las and bolt-pistol shots, and the warm trickling of blood…not his. Various heretical curses were thrown toward Antov but faith in the God-Emperor would save him; he lay there…playing dead for a few moments and taking the uncertain and cautioned approach to gather his wits. Fumbling for the handcuffs, he attached one to the deceased.
"Okay, okay…I give up."
Nikoladze halted the approaching men, he knew Antov…he knew he'd be planning, thinking. But what could one man do against five…Chaos is stronger! Staring round the room, Nikoladze took in the surroundings…a featureless storage room…full of cleaning equipment. He motioned silently for one of the accomplices to move a floor brush that was leaning against a wall; anything was dangerous in those hands.
He finally stood forward of his men, confident he was safe.
"Hah, how quickly your vaunted faith flutters from the window when faced with certain doom…now get up. I was going to bring you back as a slave, the numerous deaths in Hab4 would satiate the Blood-God enough to allow one life to fall calmly but now I must make you suffer."
Antov was also confident, he had a plan…it needed a whole lot of luck…but it was a plan. He needed to escape to get out and warn others of this betrayal, this infestation.
"I…I cannot. I have been shot in the arm, I cannot raise the body"
Encouraged by confidence, and Nikoladze moved to complete his coup de grace…ending the life of Antov meant a clean ending and no one would know the better - well not for another few days anyway, Chaos may be in constant turmoil but there are better ways of doing things. Swaggering over towards his adversary he kept every muscle tight, ready to spring backward or even forward if need be. The sight of blood flowing from the mass on the floor only reinforced his belief he had won, tipping his fellow brethren off of Antov with a foot. Seeing the bloodstained clothes, he leaned down to jeer before he started to play…
"I always knew you were a weak man Antov!"
To Antov, now sitting at a desk, the rest of his escape was mostly a blur…an adrenaline filled passing of what could only have numbered up to a matter of seconds. Yet it felt like longer when he pressed himself to reply to actions in his mind. To replay hauling Nikoladze in close, locking the handcuff around his wrist. Slow-motion going forwards as the faithful brought his knee up and into the heretical gut of his executor flipping him, winded, flattening him on his back.
Between coughs Nickoladze managed to bark an order…"Kill him…KILL HIM"… Antov pushed himself from the floor and swan dived backwards though a waste chute that he had noticed, labelled and filed before the traitors had shown their true colours, pistol shots barking after him. A soldier always knows his surroundings… a soldier, serving Him unto death. A true soldier's life.
The stark silence of deep thought was fractured by a detonation of quite some magnitude, dust dribbled down from the steel beams of the enclosure…red dust. Antov wiped his hand through his hair; Nickoladze wastes no time I see. His hair felt dry and the excessive amount of dust made it feel almost baked solid. I hate this Emperor-forsaken planet. He inspected his hands; they almost glowed with the coloration that saturated every living and non-living thing. It was like an infection, and there was no cure. Antov looked at his blood-coloured hands, was this a sign? Blood-covered hands…was this the Emperors will? To kill in his name? Or was he suggesting an unlikely alliance. Antov was going to give thanks for a fourth time this day but he felt that he shouldn't over do it…anyway there was this feral sensation in his gut, he would be the one needing blessings to survive the day.