High in the sky above the ruined hulk of the Pride of Terra, a trio of dots appeared. From a distance, one could have been forgiven for thinking they were simple carrion, to be forgotten in an instant. As the shapes grew closer however, and began to resolve themselves into more defined shapes, it became clear that these were far more dangerous than any vulture.
The Ork Fighter-Bomba were a flying contradiction. In one sense, they were thick-plated vessels designed for shock-and-awe during massive Ork invasion or WAAGH!. True to all Ork design, however, the ships also possessed a crude sense of ingenuity. jagged, swooping lines lent them an elongated aspect. Arranged in tight V-formation, the sun winked off the edges of their gleaming orange-brown hulls as they banked in for an inspection pass.
Aboard the point ship, the Metal Bitz, Alpha-Ork Nob Tinyblower rolled his neck about in a lazy circle, cracking his tendons with an audible pop. His fingers drummed idly against the side of his massive assault canon. For the third time in as many minutes, he checked the ammo gauge once again.
It was a nervous habit. Although he would never admit it, the Nob was tense. High expectations had been placed upon him. Tinyblower had received this duty by dint of his status as a direct blood-relative of Warboss Nutkraka himself. The heated whisperings of would-be rivals ran thick throughout the many corridors of the Gutwrencher, and this mission was a chance to see them silenced. No longer would his ability be in question.
"Boss, report from our bomba's escort: Humies sighted runnin' for da western canyons." The pilot's voice rasped over the Battle Net, "Permission to smash em?"
Tinyblower reached up and clicked the button attached to the underside of his bronze head-crest.
"Do it." Traelterus ordered. "Smash those humies up!"
Underneath his helmet, Alpha-Ork Nob Tinyblower bared his fangs in a tight smile.
"Make haste for the canyons!" Weyland urged, "Keep moving! The Orks are almost upon us!"
The survivors of the Terra's crash, some fifty-three Space Marines, Seven Thousand Cadian Guardsmen of the 277th and a Company worth of Inquisitorial Storm Troopers- sticking closely to Weyland himself - the towering Terminator bodyguards, had barely freed themselves from the wreckage when they heard the tell-tale whoosh of anti-grav engines overhead. All semblance of battle order was forgotten as they fled for the shelter of the twisting valleys ahead. They did so not out of cowardice, but out of necessity.
Weyland knew the Ork's brutal strategies well despite his main form of intelligence specializes in heretics not Xenos. They would first try and trap the Humans within the confines of their own vessel, slaughtering all those aboard in as brutal a manner as possible. In the event resistance proved too great, they would simply pen the Humans in, and obliterate the vessel from orbit in one fell stroke.
Failing that, the Ork ground forces would track any surviving refugees as they attempted to flee, making their locations known to the aerial craft which were inevitably to come. With the brute's quarantine broken, the last of the three options was now in play.
The Humans only chance was to get under cover as quickly as possible.
Salvation lay two hundred metres ahead. A thick outcrop of mountainous canyons loomed up across the horizon. A maze of winding passages wormed their way through the rock-face, promising a warren of potential hiding places. If they could get there, the Imperials would be able to mount a reasonable defence, by using the Fighta-Bombas lack of manoeuvrability against them. The alternative was to flee into the open grassy fields, and be massacred accordingly.
Weyland closed his eyes, willing his legs to keep pumping forward. The sound of the Ork's collective engines grew louder. They were out of time.
There was a keening boom as a pair of Fighter-Bomba attack-fighters swooped overhead, spitting a torrent of roaring Heavy shootas from their wingtips. Behind Weyland, Guardsmen wailed haplessly as they were mercilessly strafed.
Fallen Space Marines tumbled to the dirt, their armor overwhelmed and their blessed bodies broken. Enraged, Weyland stopped and pointed at the Bombas circling around for a second attack run, oblivious to the lancing bolts of heavy shoota which rent the ground around him.
"Terminators, turn and address!" he barked. They complied without hesitation.
As one, the Terminator halted, wheeled about, and unleashed a devastating salvo from their assault cannon. One of the Bombas ran straight into it, and its port wing exploded. The fighter was thrown into a reckless spin, before it struck the ground, skipped twice, then erupted in a spectacular fireball. Cheers ran up and down the Imperials rank and file. The second Bomba, wary now at the loss of its wingman, withdrew. Gratified, Weyland led his people into the safety of the waiting canyons.
For the Imperials on New Geneva, the war had finally begun.
"Kilo-Five-Seven, I am reading multiple contacts in your sector, both airborne and available ground targets. Watch yourself, Terminator."
Jerry adjusted the throttle and flipped on the com. For safety's sake, he also took the liberty of prepping the Grizzly's twin-linked 20mm Guns.
"Acknowledged, Sarajevo, I am in position to set down Fire-team Alpha-One. You just get your boys to the LZ intact, over."
"You telling me how to do my job, Terminator?"
Elina Sanchez, call-sign Sarajevo, was a notoriously bellicose woman. Cute too. Such banter was tradition.
"Always will, Sarajevo." Perry grinned. "Terminator out."
Jerry peered of the viewport. In the distance, just off the port-side, he could see Sarajevo delivering her "customers" to Fire-team Alpha-Two's insertion point. Alpha Platoon had been tasked with gauging the condition of the downed unknown warship. Jerry's orders were to set his cargo down in one of the wider valleys west of the crash, and then standby for extraction.
He spied the LZ, an open stretch in the mouth of one of the side valleys. He guided the craft down carefully, setting it down beneath the shade of the overhanging canyon wall. There was a gentle bump-hiss as the landing gear kissed the sandy floor. Jerry powered down all non-essential systems, not wishing to attract any unwanted hostile attention. "Running quiet", as the Navy called it. He then released the magnetic grip-lock holding Fireteam Alpha-One's Stinger LRV. There was a rattling thud as the heavy vehicle fell free.
The hatch behind Jerry slid open. Staff Sergeant Howard poked his head through the doorway. Only the sergeant's mouth and chin were visible beneath his helmet. Like most of the marines on New Geneva, he opted to replace the standard gold visor to the anti-glare models for combat helmet. His lips were drawn, although this was nothing unusual for Howard, who lived up to his reputation as a by-the-book, no-nonsense hard assed resoc.
"Alright, flyboy, you've done your part, just sit your ass tight while we do ours." Howard gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'm leaving Hughey, Perez, Linderman and Mikey here to secure the LZ; you'll reach 'em on TAC-COM Channel 17. They'll keep you safe."
"Roger that," Jerry nodded, tipping the rim of his impact-visor in a casual-salute. Howard nodded then disappeared down the rear dispersal platform without another word.
"Not much of a conversationalist" Jerry quipped, watching as the Stinger trundled away, its four occupants bouncing about as its massive tyres crunched their way across the rocky valley floor. Wispy dust and grass wafted up from the rear hatch, but Perry decided to leave it as it was. His helmet's filters could handle the dust, and the breeze was actually pretty good, once you got past all the sand.
Behind him, something sneezed.
Jerry twisted about in his harness, craning his neck around. He listened. Did I just imagine that? The perplexed pilot opened the com channel the sergeant had left with him.
"Hey, Terminator here; did one of you boys hear something?" he asked.
"This is Corporal Mikey, all quiet out here," one of the soldiers replied. "Something up, flyboy?"
"Uh, no, never mind." Perry mumbled sheepishly. He switched off the com.
"You're losing it, O' Neil." Jerry shook his head ruefully, settling back in his chair.
Something sneezed again. This time, he definitely hadn't imagined it. In one motion, Jerry popped the restraints and slid a hand down to the side-arm strapped to his leg. He drew the compact C-7 pistol smoothly, racking the slide. Sliding out of his chair, he approached the source of the sound, weapon raised. It was a non-descript cargo locker, one of four cramped between the pilot's cabin and the "Blood Tray" where the Marines had debarked from. Perry took a deep breath, reached forward, and hauled the locker open.
A yellow bundle burst from the locker in an explosion of tangled limbs and disposed MREs. Jerry yelped and fell back against the far wall. After a moment of heart-stopping terror, he realised it was a child, wrapped in an environmental suit three times too big for her. The little girl was sneezing violently, her eyes watering from the dust.
"'Yellow!" Sandar Jennison beamed. "We're on an adventure!"
Jerry recognised her immediately. After all, she looked just like her mother. At that moment, his brain was only capable of processing two words.
"Oh, Fuck." Jerry breathed.