Fifty-three kilometres east of Horizon, a ragged trench of fire and smoking metal tore deep into the desert floor. The surrounding greenery had been branded a scorched black. At the end of this trench, the Pride of Terran, a once-proud and regal warship of the Imperium Of Man, now resembled a grotesque bleached whale. It had sunk down into the sand, like a smouldering meteor. The ship's surface was cracked and pitted; the archiac dusty-brown hull plating all but sheered away from the violent, tumbling impact. For hundreds of meters around, a minefield of burning debris sizzled in the morning sun. Inside, things were a stark contrast.
There was darkness; total and absolute.
Above him, lights flickered. He felt distant heat, and could dimly hear the soft crackling of flames. Slowly, the world began to swirl its way back into focus. Something groaned.
Weyland realised it was him. His fingers groped about for a handhold. He felt the edge of a seat, his grip biting deep into the cushioning. The Lord Inquisitor hauled himself back up into his command throne groggily. Warning icons on his eyepiece fizzled as he suffered minor injuries to his augmented body.
"Status...Status report!" Weylan croaked.
Nobody answered. Like all Imperium warship, the ship's bridge was comfortably nestled at the front of the ship. As such, it was the most structurally vulnerable location, was not impervious to all external damages. That so many of the bridge crew had been tossed about like rag dolls did actually bode well.
Unlike Weyland, the bridge crew did not have the luxury of a command throne, and so found themselves piled in an ungainly heap at the far end of the chamber. Thankfully, most were still breathing. Their combat harnesses had saved their lives.
The first to recover was the helmsman, Zakary Oslo. He moaned, coughed, and rolled over onto his back, nursing a hand over his chest protectively. His normally polished crimson armour had been scalded black in several places. Weyland staggered over toward him, extending a helpful hand.
"It seems as though we made it here in one piece, Helmsman," Weyland observed wryly, "No thanks to your piloting."
Zakary chuckled darkly as he grabbed the Shipmaster's wrist, hauling himself to his feet.
"My apologies, Lord." Zakary retorted, "Next time I shall try and land without the ship's engines exploding and pissing the machine spirits off."
"I look forward to it."Weyland replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "See to the others, we must act quickly."
Zakary saluted, and moved off to help the other crew. Footsteps of booted feet approached him from behind, Weyland craned his neck around and spoke a single name over his shoulder.
"Brother Captain Rafael."
True enough, when the Lord Inquisitor turned around, there stood a heavily scarred Space Marine of the Ultramarines, his head bowed in reverence. Rafael Torfan's left eye had burst in the impact. Thick crimson liquid dripped down from his wound onto his chest plate, staining the Aquilla. If it bothered him, he gave no sign.
"Well met, my Lord." Rafael's voice was a lethal whisper. Fitting, given his status as a Captain of the Ultramarines.
"You are injured." Weyland noted.
"The wound is inconsequential, my Lord." Rukth shook his head, "It shall not impede me."
"Nothing ever does. Our status?"
"Grim. We have lost most of our power, though rudimentary life support remains. Regrettably, all hatches and grav-lifts have ceased functioning. Were it not for our Power Swords, and the strength of the the Emperor whom my brothers are blessed with, we could have found ourselves entombed within our own vessel."
Rafael paused to swipe some blood away from his cheek bones before continuing.
"The air in the lower decks is thick with the taste of radiation - I dare not risk my remaining men in further investigation, but we must assume that most of the Servitors and Guardsmen onboard have fallen prey to its taint."
Weyland listened to the news sombrely. Though like all Inquisitors, he viewed the Guardsmen as expendable yet reliable tools, but he took no pleasure in hearing their fate. His crew deserved better. Sensing this, the darker Elite's mandibles tightened in discomfort.
"I… am sorry to say, Inquisitor Weyland, but your ship shall not travel the stars again."
"I expected as much."Weyland's voice was resigned, but any bitterness he might have felt did not show, "The Pride of Terra might have come to an end, but that does not mean I shall allow its crew to meet the same fate. We will avenge its name, and those that have given their lives in HIS service."
Rafael nodded in approval.
"It is good that you do not lose clarity, my Lord. I have sent my men to scour a path through the vessel. Already, your personal Terminator bodyguards have cleaved their way toward the starboard passages."
"You managed to convince them to abandon the bridge?" Weyland could not hide his surprise. The Lord Inquisitor's two bodyguards were enigmatic, and all but incomprehensible at the best of times, but their sense of duty was unquestionable, almost to a fault.
Rafael grinned, gesturing toward a gaping hole where the bridge's main entrance used to be. The melted seams of metal still glowed white-hot from where a twinned pair of Assault Cannons had liquefied the blast-door.
"Only after they had been assured of your safety." Rafael explained, with a smirk.
Weyland twitched his lips in a grateful smile, and then stepped over to the edge of the command dais. Below, a battered assembly of shell-shocked Guardsmen and Space Marines of the Ultramarines had assembled. Despite widespread injury, their eyes were watchful and strong, full of determination. The sight filled him with pride. Raising his voice, he addressed them in words befitting the rank of a Lord Inquisitor. His voice was coolly-modulated, deep and solemn.
"My brothers, and sisters, we have been dealt a great blow this day, the Veridian Sigma system has no doubt fallen to the wretched Orks." He made a sweeping gesture indicating the battered bridge around them. "Even now, our great vessel lies in ruins. We are the victims of a terrible deceit. Of treachery most foul."
Weyland Croff's voice rose in volume. A master orator, every word was crafted, each syllable carefully selected for the most import. The glowing eyes of his face seemed to burn with passion, as though fuelled by a great fire within. For years afterward, his words would be remembered as one of the defining moments of the New Geneva campaign.
"Consider, my Brothers, the name of our vessel. The Pride of Terra. It is the name of our home, the name of our people. That ship is broken now, all but shattered in the wake of a terrible injustice. Its weapons shall remain silent. Its title shall reap victories no longer. But do I despair in this, Brothers? Do I bow down, and accept the fate thrust upon us? Never!"
Weyland's hands balled into fists.
"Because the title of our ship is just that - a title, and nothing more. It is defined not by the words that compose it, but rather the inspiration behind their very choosing! Integrity, honour, discipline...Faith- each of these traits set us apart from the gutless dogs who would seek to crush us underfoot. Do I lament my vessel's passing? Yes, and I shall repay them thrice-fold for what they have done!"
Weyland's eyes met with each of the crew in turn.
"But I do not despair. For I know that each of those same qualities are exhibited by the men and women I see before me. It is your integrity, discipline and honour that are instrumental to our success, nay; our very survival as a species. For many years, you have served with me aboard this vessel. We have fought many battles together, you and I, won many victories. You have never failed me. Now, more so than ever before, I would ask that you follow me into battle as diligently as you have done in the past. And so I ask you: are you with me, my brothers and sisters? Will you take up arms by my side, and follow me to victory once more?"
"Until our dying breath, my Lord, for the Emperor and the Glory of His Imperium!" one of the Space Marines shouted. There was a booming chorus of assent. Many thumped their fists against their chest-plates in vehement approval. The Shipmaster nodded slowly, satisfied.
"I could ask for no finer answer. Your orders are as follows. Rally the crew, head for the exits. The Greenskins shall be upon us shortly, and I do not intend for us to be easy prey."
He paused, then flexed the grip moulded to his right hand. There was a snap-hiss as a sleek double-edged Power Sword flared into being, casting everything around it in a faint blue glow. He held it aloft, and bellowed.
"Should the foul Xenos even dare to try and sink their vile weapons on us; the only thing they shall discover is that the price paid was not worth the fighting!"
All around him, the Guardsmen and Space Marines howled their defiance against overwhelming odds.