Above the grassy canyons of New Geneva, death lingered.
The Imperial refugees skulked in the deep shadows offered by the high canyon walls, flattening themselves against the dirt as yet another Ork air patrol shrieked by.
Weyland guided his forces through the tighter chasms, knowing all too well what would happen were they to trek through more exposed terrain. As if to emphasise his point, a ponderous Ork dropship blotted out the sun overhead, its belly-mounted turrets tracking toward the wider passages Weyland had intentionally chosen to avoid.
Weyland froze. The dropship had slowed to a gentle hover right above them. Weyland could even feel the heat from the ship's engine wash upon his skin. Several Guardsmen exchanged uneasy looks, their hands reaching reflexively toward their Lasguns. The Unngoy twitched erratically, scared out of their minds. Only the presence of their Sangheili masters kept them from panicking altogether.
"All forces, hold your fire." Weyland whispered into the Battle Net. "Not a sound."
"That goes double for the Guardsmen," That was Brother-Captain Rafael, from somewhere further down the Imperial line. "If you so much as breathe too loudly, you shall answer to me personally."
With a whirring clank, the side hatches on the dropship yawned open. Weyland could just about make out a mob of Green and the occasional scrap metal on them as armor.. One of the senior Ork shock-troops was sweeping the horizon through the scope of his shoota, looking for targets. Had he the intelligence to check below, he would have found the humans sitting right beneath him.
Zantheus 'Krips, second in command of the Ultramarines' Scout detachment, lined up a shot with his silenced Stalker Bolter. A gifted sniper, it was a guaranteed kill. Weyland placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head slowly. Reluctantly, Zantheus lowered the rifle. Seemingly frustrated, the Orks ducked back into the dropship The side hatch began to close.
Weyland closed his eyes, relief coursing through his veins
It was then that a rocket hissed up from the adjacent canyon, slamming straight into the closing mouth of the Ork troop carrier. There was a dazzling blossom of fire, and a thunderous boom shook the air. A burning shower of metal, fire and body parts rained down upon the Imperials. Within a heartbeat, all hell had broken loose.
"Hit it again!" Sergeant Howard hollered. He had to shout to be heard over the roaring wind. In the back-seat, Private Griffins struggled to centre the stricken unknown hostile drop-ship, an ugly one at that, in his sights, trying to paint it with the bleeping crosshair. At that speed, this was not an easy task. The target danced giddily in his sights. The Stinger's suspension shook its passengers about like ragdolls. Griffin heard the affirmative ping of a target-lock and squeezed the firing stud.
With a violent hiss-sneeze, the rocket banged out of the launcher and up into the sky. It arced into the jagged wound in the dropship's side, prompting a geyser of fire to vomit out both side hatches. The crippled landing craft dropped into a graceless dive, falling out of sight. In the distance, they heard an even larger secondary explosion.
"Hell yeah! That's a confirmed kill!" Griffin whooped, smacking armored palms with the marine next to him. It was his first confirmed kill.
His celebration was premature.
A second dropship rose into view, belly turrets blazing. The driver swore and threw the wheel in a desperate evasive spin. The vehicle slid about, wheels locking into a savage skid. The entire LRV rolled twice, before miraculously managing to land on its feet again.
Four of the marines, though thoroughly disorientated, remained intact. Griffin was not so fortunate. He had still been standing up when the Stinger tipped over. The power armor he wore could not save the young man's neck from being pulverised as he was grounded between the dirt and the monstrous weight of the vehicle. His rocket launcher tumbled free into the dirt.
"Shit! Man down!" The medic was shouting.
It was the first casualty inflicted by the Orks in course of the New Geneva WAAGH!
It would not be the last.
Back in Horizon's Control Tower, dozens of navy technicians perched before rows of whirring communications equipment. Hovering behind them, Ashton and Burbatoff were hunched over one of the consoles. Their faces were taut with the burden of command.
"We have a man down; Private Terry Griffin." Howard's voice was tinny as it came through the com-link.
"What's his status?" Burbatoff responded, his brow knitted in concern. There was a dreadful pause.
"He's KIA, Sir. I say again, KIA."
A sombre hush fell over the room. The two marines exchanged a worn look, one they had shared all too often in the past.
"Acknowledged, Alpha-One, things are getting too hot out there." Ashton had seen enough. "Disengage and head for extraction, over."
"Ten-Four, Alpha-One out."
"You're pulling them back already?" Burbatoff asked, arching his eyebrows in surprise.
"If they're able to scramble that many hostile air units already, then I'd say we've assessed their strength well enough. I'm not going to waste valuable Marines confirming the obvious."
Burbatoff nodded. He wasn't one to argue. Across the room, one of the com officers frowned, and squinted up at the two marines.
"Uh, Sir, we're getting a transmission from Kilo-Five-Seven."
"He's supposed to be maintaining radio silence." Ashton growled. "What the hell does he want?"
The tech's face was a mask of confusion.
"That's just it, Sir, I'm not quite sure. He keeps saying something about a stow-away…"
"A what? Give me that!" Ashton snatched the headset away from the tech.
"Ashton here. This had better be good, Terminator…"
The swarthy major listened for a moment. The pilot's voice on the other end of the line sounded as if he were on the verge of a panic attack. As Ashton listened, and the full extent of the situation became apparent, he could see why. Even he went a bit pale. The muscles in his jaw bunched up.Never a good sign, Burbatoff thought.
"Burbatoff, is Administrator Jennison around?" Ashton enquired quietly.
"No, Sir, she's currently over-seeing construction of the Eastern trenches. Will I go get her?"
"No, no that won't be necessary, Lieutenant. In fact, try keep and her there for as long as you can. Whatever you do, don't let her near the ops centre."
"Will do, Sir." Burbatoff said, before lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "May I ask why, Sir?"
Abelev shook his head, looking every bit his forty-five years of age.
"Trust me, Burb: you don't wanna know."
Aboard the Gutwrencher, the Battle Net was alive with confusion. The Blood Giver was down, and Tinyblower's blood was up.
"Oy, Open da hatch!" The Nob boomed, hefting his crude assault canon.
Stepping out into the rushing wind, his exposed skin shivered by the fearsome breeze, Tinyblower held onto a support strut and regarded his prey. Far below him, weaving desperately to avoid the Ork's juddering plasma batteries, was another Humie's troop transport. Their puny dakka pinged harmlessly off the Ork dropship's hull.
More Humies. Unexpected, bothersome weaklings. The cowards had taken advantage of this fact, and bloodied the Nob's forces because of it. The insult was intolerable.
No matter, their end would be swift.
Tinyblower swung his assault cannon to bear. He adjusted his aim, giving the human vehicle a sizeable lead. With a belly-laugh he opened fire, watching as the oversized projectiles tore columns of fire up across the canyon floor. The human vehicle burst through the initial salvo, visibly shaken. Their destruction was only a matter of time. Still chortling, Tinyblower continued to fire. He opened a link to the Vox Net on all channels, wide-band. Even the Imperials overheard the instructions.
"All Boyz, converge on the other Humies! We have new prey ta' smash!"
As he prepped the Grizzly for take-off, Jerry did his best to ignore the sullen eyes burning tiny holes in the back of his helmet. The pilot had strapped Sandra into one of the flight seats, after giving the little girl a severe telling off. Or at least he thought was a severe telling off, at any rate. By his own admission, Jerry was useless with kids.
The engines whined as they began to cycle up. Jerry made a point of double checking the Grizzly's weapon systems. Howard's men were roughly fifteen minutes out, and the pilot intended to cover them every step of the way before effecting a scoop and scoot.
"You all settled back in there?" Jerry called out to his passengers.
"Good to go!" Corporal Mikey shot back. The other marines flashed their thumbs up, eager to get in the fight.
Sandra didn't answer. She was too busy fuming.
"Here we go…" Perry said, easing the flight stick back.
With a flare of engine wash, Terminator rose into the sky, weapons primed.
"More Humans, here?" Rafael stepped over an exhausted Guardsmen as he approached the Shipmaster. "This eases our current predicament greatly."
"Quite so." Weyland agreed thoughtfully. "But as I recall, under the star charts, there is no indication of an Imperial planet here, these humans must be left on their own without the Emperor's Light."
The Ultramarine narrowed his eyes. "You're saying they're heretics?" he asked, voice laden with suspicion.
"Not exactly, no, they've never even heard of the Emperor, it would be unwise to just cast them as heretics. In the ten years we have served together, have I ever failed you?" Weyland countered, returning Rafael's gaze openly.
"No, Lord Inquisitor. Never."
"So you trust my judgement, Brother?" Weyland continued.
"Without question."
"Then trust me now when I say this. Take the survivors; scatter them throughout the valleys and gulleys. Use every nook, occupy every cranny. Avoid conflict whenever possible."
Weyland was checking the power supply of the plasma gun fastened to his thigh. Satisfied, he slapped it twice in a good luck-gesture. "Await further instructions on my private Vox frequency."
"Understood." Rafael bowed his head obediantly. "The shadows themselves will not know we are here."
"I would expect no less, Captain Rafael." Weyland smiled. He held up a hand. "One other thing - a request, if you will.
"Name it."
"Leave me three of your best men."
Rafael nodded, pointing at Zantheus and two others.
"Escort the Lord Inquisitor. Give your lives, if necessary."
"Your will be done, Brother!" the three Navy Blue armoured Space Marines replied in chorus. Rafael nodded and turned back to the black-plated Lord Inquisitor. He stepped forward, concerned.
"What is it you are planning, old friend?"
Weyland test-activated his power sword. It gleamed hungrily in the dim half-light of the enclosed canyon. Satisfied, he snapped it off again. The Lord Inquisitor then cast a look over in the direction the second Ork dropship had headed. His voice was distant, wistful almost.
"Something I could never have imagined doing, throughout my entire career."
With that, the Lord Inquisitor turned and rushed off deeper into the valley. His three hulking body-guards hurried after him, and were soon lost to the shadows of the looming cliffs.
Rafael regard the twinned pair of Terminators standing beside him, trying to gauge their views on their Lord's plan. They simply shrugged back at him, their armoured plates clanking heavily with the gesture. The Space Marine officer turned to address the Space Marines, Guardsmen and Stormtroopers gathered around him.
"You heard the man! All warriors, disperse, and await my signal! May the grace of the Emperor be with you!"