Here we go again! Old friends are coming up. I hope you like it. Now, based upon reviews, I realize a lot of you want to see certain people/groups, and that some think this story is dark enough, especially considering the universes I'm writing and the war they're in. Rest assured, all of you, that I have had a plan for this story from the beginning and all of your concerns will be addressed if you just stay tuned. There's only so much I can write in a given time, but everything will be showing up. As for this chapter, I hope you like seeing our old friends once again. We also have the Iron Fists here, and the reason I didn't have the Iron Hands show up sooner.
IMPORTANT: I would also like to mention, due to a few reader suggestions and an idea of my own, there will be a short story based on Technophiles and Militarists posted when this chapter comes out. (It may take a bit for to actually get it out, but rest assured it has been posted as we speak.) It's pretty good, pretty funny, and I think you will like it. Go check it out, and perhaps go follow me purely for your own convince of seeing when things are posted.
As for reviews, I thank you for all of them! Keep them coming!
Colossus Bridger: I will try my best for more psykers. That is and was in the works, so I hope you like it. And, yes, there was a Guardswoman somewhat falling for a Turian, which will be elaborated on later. We might see some Commissars in action, don't you worry.
Doc43Souls: Thank you! As another helpful reader pointed out, I meant Operation Kutuzov, a Red Army offensive in World War II named after the famous 19th-century general you are referring to. Also, thank you for your help catching misspellings and typos. I can't thank you enough for it.
themadnimrod: Yep! We're going to see some more elaborations on that, so I hope you like it. Mordin is also showing up later.
valhalan guardsman: I'll see if I can fit in Ogryns in the future. Thank you for the suggestion.
ADeter: Yes. That's something we're going to explore, and most people (in-universe and out) are starting to realize.
Guest: Understood. Not sure if the Virmire survivor is coming, but I'll try to fit them in. As for the endings, the Imperium isn't going to use the Catalyst. They're probably going to just outright try and destroy the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum forces.
Guest: Thank you.
Guest: Yes, heresy, but we'll elaborate, so stay tuned.
Guest: Oh, yes, we're going to see the Krogan. Don't you worry. The Turian general might get some help, if he's not too proud to ask for it. Don't take the logistics of it too seriously. He's there as a background character.
ProfessorZooms: Thank you! The march I was specifically envisioning was La Victoire Est A Nous, a French march from the Napoleonic period.
Knighthunter911700: Thank you! I think the Imperials are starting to realize it, begrudging as it might be.
lu ming fei1/qeadzcwsx: I'm not 100% sure about what you meant about the fandoms, but I'll try to answer your review. I find Warhammer cool because it's both a super over-the-top war setting in which anything can happen, and because of the human supremacist element. We're not getting along with aliens like in Mass Effect or Star Trek, we're not getting kicked around by aliens like in Independence Day or Halo, we rule the galaxy. I understand where your coming from, but if you want to write a crossover using the Warhammer universe (and all the cool stuff within) your options are to have them uncharacteristically get along with people or just have them murder everyone. The second option is boring, in my opinion, so we have to go with the first.
Guest: Thank you for your input. You are correct, I did mean the WW2 operation.
Ghostly: Oh, not to worry. All of your concerns will be addressed. I have been planning on showing it for a while; I just can't write it without getting the beginning of the war out first.
Bbyjesus: Thank you!
OscuroSignore-51: Thank you! I'm glad you like the snippets. I got the idea from Red Storm Rising (which is a great, if extremely long book) and think it helps show both the characters and the war better. We will see the Mordians and the Marine later. Not sure about the Astartes chaplain and his group, but I can try to fit it in. I believe Sanguinary Priests are actually the Blood Angel version of apothecaries, not chaplains. Shepard kicking ass with the Kasrkin will be in a few chapters. As for the talk show, I started it, but I couldn't make it work or get it funny enough for what I wanted, so I do hope you like my other short story. Sorry I couldn't get the talk show idea to work. Thank you for your ideas and reviews!
oOo
Battle for the Homeworld
"Long live the Omnissiah! Sing praise to His holy name through the din of war and the power of machinery!" -Song of the Omnissiah 15:31
"Only when by the power of our hate we have truly shed the prison of our own flesh, shall we be judged worthy to stand at the side of the returned primarch. Every foe I slay, every stone I cast down, makes my hatred purer, and the day Ferrus Manus is restored to us a day closer." -Iron Father Klaanu Johan of the Iron Hands
oOo
The holographic table in the center of the massive chamber glowed with a strange mixture of light cerulean blue and the deepest of bloody reds. Such was the style of holographic technology here. Indeed, such was the style of a great many things on Adas, a strange and yet somehow deeply beautiful mix of the technologies of two galaxies. The Adeptus Mechanicus were the seekers of knowledge and the purveyors of the strongest and strangest technologies, after all. It was no surprise that here things would be different. On Adas was the blend of the old and new, the ancient technology of the Mechanicum and the God-Emperor mixing with whatever creations the Quarian people and Citadel space had come up with.
Around the table were three strange figures; two this strange blend of new and old, of two realities collided, and one a member of simply the old, if only in appearance. In mind and heart, he was both. But, appearances did have to be kept. Always.
Throughout the chamber, servitors monitored cogitator terminals, chanting their binary prayers of benediction to the Machine God. Several of them had odd hues beneath their robes: one's skin was a pure blue, several nearby were leathery and brown-tinged. The Lord of Adas cared not where his servitors came from, so long as they came. Besides, xenos and heretics who would normally be executed could too be put to use as loyal servants of Mars and the Machine God.
The scents of sacred incense drifted through the air, its sickly-sweet smell comforting to those of the Mechanicus who stood in the massive chamber. Center, of course, was the Fabricator General of Adas, Felis Natrius, resplendent in his black, violet, and red robe. His many mechadendrites and servo arms were still and silent for once, held respectfully behind his back. Blue optics glowed with warmth from behind his black hood, taking in the hologram and his two companions thoughtfully.
Said companions were tiny, nearly miniature in comparison to Natrius's huge height and bulk. While both were Tech-Priests, they did not have anywhere close to the Lord of Adas's many decades of experience and time to augment their bodies to something beyond their original forms. There was also the fact that their original forms were much slimmer, much more lithe than that of humans.
Both were, of course, draped in the familiar violet, crimson, and black robes of Adas. One was much more heavily augmented than the other. While both believed in the divinity of the Machine God and the cold certainty of steel, one took to the practicality of the Tech-Priests' bloated and utterly inhuman forms with the ease of a duck in water. Ex-Admiral Daro'Xen vas Moreh, now Adept Daro'Xen vas Adas, already had multiple mechadendrites, cybernetic arms, interior biological mechanicals, and a metallic faceplate. To her profound annoyance, the faceplate was not permanent (yet), attached to her very skull beneath like most Priests. Instead, it was an extremely tight-hugging mask, molded by her to fit her. Still, the faceplate was better than a mask. It could do everything the mask of her old enviro-suit could, plus so much more.
The Admiral had been one to quickly embrace the power the Lord of All Machines brought to the Quarian people. She admired the Tech-Priests. They were her type of people: cold, somewhat callus, aloof, powerful, and seekers of knowledge above all and anything else that might come in their way. Xen was an excellent addition to the Tech-Priests' ranks, and quickly went about her new role with nearly unholy relish.
In contrast, the second Tech-Priest, Zore'Reer vas Adas, was much more in tune with her original bearing as a Quarian. While both Xen and Reer were still fully Quarian in body, the only additions to their form mechadendrites, Reer remained much more Quarian in mind. Her only augmentations were the single mechadendrite granted upon graduating as a Priest, her augmetic left arm, and additional interior cybernetics granting increased strength and a bonus to her naturally weak immune system. Xen had much the same, of course, but she also had started messing with internal biochemistry and excised any organs she deemed unnecessary. Reer found no need to take such steps. She could still serve the Omnissiah in this form, and besides, who had time for modifications now?
In addition, she still retained her old personality and Quarian mannerisms. Her master, the Lord of Adas, did not mind. Indeed, she often suspected he almost preferred it this way. She was something of a grounding object to Natrius, her cheerful and kind personality keeping him close to the meat- er, biologicals, of the universe. Without her, he was afraid he might delve deep into the mathematics of the forge world, and lose himself in binary. If that ever happened, Adas would lose its reason for survival: Natrius's brilliant diplomacy.
Of course, that was how Adas had been founded. Through a mix of cajoling and pure logic, Natrius had been able to wrestle the Adas forge into existence when rightly it should have never been. Adas was, after all, a mix, and to the Mechanicus and Imperium, a mix was heresy. Yet, through his knowledge of Tech-Priest behavior and rationale on how it would be beneficial to gain insight into the technology of this galaxy, Natrius had gotten the Lord of Mars on his side.
Now, the Fabricator General, Lord of Mars and supreme leader of the Adpetus Mechanicus, would be protecting his investment. For while xenos had to be coddled if this planet was ever to belong to the twin empires of the Imperium and Mechanicus, and while humanity's sacred homeworld had to be retaken, this was the only outpost the Imperium of Man or Adeptus Mechanicus had in this galaxy. It would not do to see it lay in ruins.
So it was now that the strange holographic table displayed a myriad of intriguing individuals to look down upon the three strange beings who made Adas their home. Through the crisp and non-shaking hologram (a miracle in comparison to many similar Imperial devices), nine different individuals were displayed. One was wearing a simple black robe, her stern features plain by normal human standards. Yet she was perhaps the most important of the group. She simply stood, silent, as the others spoke.
Her compatriot was Baron Randul of House Raven, resplendent in his gold, brone, and red armor. The Knights would be assisting the Titans. While god-engines were nigh-invincible, it was always good to have Knights in support. Many an arrogant Princeps had been brought low by far lesser creatures without Knight support.
Archmagos Sylvius Nerian was next in the deep black and red robes of Stygies, Natrius's home planet. The Fabricator General of Adas had been delighted that his old homeworld had been invited to take part in the crusade to help his new home, and the forces and Priests of Stygies were no less delighted that they, for once, had been asked to take part in an important Imperial crusade. Their unconventional shrouding protocols would be a great boon to the defenders of the Tikkun System. Both Stygian-born Priests were currently discussing how best to implement them.
Next to his master, Marshal Alpha-Nine of Stygies stood completely silent, absorbing all information he could from the meeting. He was the perfect assistant, the perfect strategic commander, and so far, the most liked by everyone on the holo-call because he kept completely silent at all times. Alpha-Nine did not speak because it was not his place to speak. Instead, he only listened, and everyone else knew he would carry out the strategy without flaw.
Two others were plainly Quarians. They did not bear the heavy armor or over-embellished embroidery of the Imperials or the servants of the Omnissiah. While one did indeed wear a robe, it was a somewhat plain thing. Made of pale colors in the sort of shades Quarians usually enjoyed, it was elegant, simple, and nothing more. The robes belonged to Rael'Zorah, the governor of Rannoch. It was a great thing to be able to wear robes in the first place, to have one's face out in the open instead of protected by an enviro-suit's mask. It was only thanks to Natrius and the Mechanicus that Rael was able to do so, and so he would give whatever resources the Quarian Republic could spare for the defense of both Rannoch and Adas. The Quarians and Mechanicus were in this together.
The second Quarian was Rael's old friend, Han'Gerrel. Gerrel did wear an enviro-suit, for he was still aboard the ship Neema high in Rannoch's orbit. Suits, as annoying as they were, still had to be worn by Quarians aboard starships. The air aboard ships was not pure enough for Quarian immune systems. Oh, well. Most Quarians had been wearing suits all their lives, and thus it made little difference.
Gerrel was Admiral of the Quarian Navy, and so it was his job to plan the orbital defense of the planets. Admiral Neilson of the Imperial Navy would aid him, but the man was unfortunately unable to attend this particular meeting. Instead, he was speaking to Admiral Hannah Shepard, the Alliance's go-between and de-facto diplomat to the Quarian Republic. The two humans would doubtless come up with a plan, and Shepard would doubtless share it with Gerrel.
Next was General Anar Ehman, commander of the Tallarn Desert Raiders. Much like his skitarii counterpart, he said nothing, only inputting his tactics here and there. He was the representative of the Guard, after all, and it would not do to see humanity's mortal servants beneath the Tech-Priests or xenos. In that ideal, he had much in common with the remaining members of the conference call.
The last two wore the bulky silver power armor of the Iron Fists. Chapter Master Verchen stood in his custom armor beside Iron Father Dorian, his second-in-command. Unlike the rest of those present in this meeting, they were vocal both of the strategy and legacy of their gene-father, and of their distaste for the current situation. The Blood Angels and Raven Guard might have been willing (or "willing", depending on what you thought) to work alongside xenos, but still both First Founding Chapters were deployed to Earth. To the homeworld of humanity. They didn't have to deal with xenos. The Hawk Lords did, and did it with the taciturn and understanding nature of the Sons of Guilliman. They didn't like it, but orders were orders, and duty was duty.
The Iron Fists, on the other hand, thought that their current mission was far more than ridiculous. Indeed, it was heresy of the highest magnitude. This place, its very existence, was heresy.
Thus they were very bellicose to their hosts, sneering and frowning in a disapproval even their masks couldn't hide. The Emperor's Angels of Death had no love towards xenos. Had Lords Dante and Shrike forgotten this? Did they steal all the glory for themselves, leaving the sons of Manus to deal with blasphemy in their stead? Apparently. For all their words of cold emotion and logic, the sons of the Tenth Primarch could, at times, be the most emotional and bellicose of all Marines.
Still, their iron continuance and logical strategic brilliance shone through the tactical meeting. They were just as tactically brilliant as the Tech-Priests, as only those who replaced their flesh and brains with augmetics could be. Besides, they were Space Marines, the Emperor's Angels. Strategy came naturally to them and was honed over countless decades upon hundreds of terrible battlefields.
Regardless of everyone's personal politics (and the sheer scope and extent of them was starting to give Natrius a headache), a grand plan had been hammered out. Painfully. The Quarians didn't like to be told what to do because it was their planet being defended and they knew it best. The Mechanicus delegates, prickly and logical as ever, didn't want to be told what to do either. And, of course, the Iron Fists and Imperial Guard thought everything here was heresy in the first place and thus didn't want to be ordered around by heretics.
However, the defense plan, painful as it was, was complete and went something like this:
There were two planets in the Tikkun System that needed to be defended, Rannoach, capital of the Quarian Republic, and Adas, base of the Mechanicus. The defenses of each would be coordinated extremely differently. Adas was a forge, plain and simple. There was one, and only one, important location upon its surface. The Mechanicus central forge had to be protected at all costs, otherwise everything the Mechanicus was doing here would be for naught and they would have to start all over again. Therefore, the defense of Adas would be static. What naval ships the allies had above the planet would be concentrated only above the forge complex, giving them full orbital and arial supremacy. Half of the Iron Fists, including a unique extremely-heavy mobile fortress-crawler and a majority of the chapter's Terminators would be deploying in defensive positions on the base. In addition, many of the forces of Stygies VIII would lend whatever aid they could.
In contrast to Adas, the Rannoch campaign would be an extremely fluid, mobile, open war. Whatever Quarian civilians possible would be hidden away or sent to whatever safe locations the Mechanicus or Quarian government could find. The Reapers would be frustrated simply because there was nothing to fight, nothing to harvest. As the Quarians had only recently gotten their planet back, there were no great cities upon its surface. Thus Rannoach would be open to a completely mobile war where the Reapers could be destroyed at leisure. The armored might of the Tallarn Desert Raiders, alongside mobile skitarii units and the armor and air support of the Iron Fists could be brought to bear. It was a style all of the Imperials and Quarians, even the resolute Fists, were comfortable with.
Legio Honorum would be deploying to both Adas and Rannoch. Their god-engines were the only ground weapons that could reliably take out Reapers. They would adjust with the campaigns of each world: upon Adas they would be static defenders, and upon Rannoch they would be mobile hunter-killers, striding with the Knights of Raven upon the planet's fertile open fields and sandy wastes. Either way, Legio Honorum would provide the backbone of the defense, and were thrice-welcome allies to both the Quarians and Imperials.
The hologram fizzled out, the stony vistages of everyone upon it still frowning. Natrius had to smile beneath his iron mask. The mark of a good compromise was if both the plan worked and everyone was unhappy about it. The current situation fit both criteria.
Unlike his compatriots, Natrius harbored no resentment. If his forge would be defended, then all was well. He cared not who helped him, so as long as he would be helped and his planet and people would be saved.
As the hologram shut off, the two Quarians standing next to him looked up. Xen had her cold and calculating gaze, and Reer her own warm smile that made her silvery eyes glow, a far contrast to the severe oculars of the other Tech-Priests around her. Natrius looked down at both fondly.
"Well? What now, Lord Fabricator General?" asked Xen. Her mechadendrites were completely still, arms clasped neatly behind her back as she took in Natrius's dark visage.
"Now we go to war, Adept Xen. Now we go to war." The ex-Admiral nodded swiftly and turned away. As she strode purposefully from the chamber, she called back over her shoulder.
"I must prepare what contingencies I can with Lord Piloc." Piloc was Natrius's ex-apprentice from Stygies, long since graduated, and now served his old master as chief medical officer and xenobiologist of Adas. He had trained Xen as Natrius trained Reer. Now Xen would aid her master with anything she was able.
"Very good, Adept Xen." As the heavy steel door clanked close behind Xen, Natrius put a cybernetic hand on Reer's shoulder. She jumped, startled at the sudden touch, but settled back when she realized it was that of her master. "Are you afraid, Zore?" came the quiet question, cutting to the bone as all Tech-Priest questions were wont to.
"I… A little, I guess," replied Zore. Honesty and answers were all the Priests of the Mechanicus craved, and she would always give them to her beloved master. Her eyes shone up at Natrius. "I think we can win… but you never know. It's scary. Both the war, and… not knowing, I guess." Natrius gave a small, warm laugh and patted her shoulder.
"Worry not, Adept Reer, for we shall win. The galaxy shall belong to the righteous, as it always will. The Omnissiah shall watch over us, fear not."
oOo
Admiral Hannah Shepard of the Alliance Navy walked through the sandy stone halls of the governor's estate on Rannoch. She wore her full navy blue tunic uniform, the deep colors contrasting neatly with the pale shades of building around her. Behind her were her two Marine bodyguards in their gray-blue armor, walking slowly, careful for any threats to their charge. They didn't think there would be any; Rannoch was one of the most peaceful planets in the galaxy, but one could never be sure. Besides, it was their duty as Marines.
Hannah herself had been on-planet for a great many years now, seconded out to the Quarians as de-facto human diplomat. Her ship and crew were the only Alliance diplomats to the Quarian race. In fact, they were the only non-Mechanicus diplomats to the Quarians. No other races were allowed to send diplomats or set up embassies here. The Quarians didn't want them. They let their species suffer and rot for three hundred years, treating them as less than nothing. Why should the Quarians want them?
Over her time on Rannoch, Hannah had picked up a lot of Quarian culture. She could even speak the language reasonably well. For their part, the Quarians had been ecstatic over having a newcomer of their galaxy on Rannoch, and loved to teach her whatever they could about Quarian culture.
She had learned a lot about the once-nomadic people, perhaps far more than anyone else in the last three centuries. Minus her son, of course. He knew as much as her. Hannah smiled at the thought.
Despite him not giving her any warning that he was still alive after two years of mourning, the Dawn War, and the mission to the Collector Base, she still dearly loved her son. His relationship with Tali was something she approved of. Her daughter-in-law was good for John. Definitely. Kept him grounded and from doing the idiocies he was often prone to.
Hannah made another turn in the cool sandstone estate and walked down a cheery, open hallway. At the end, on the right, stood two Quarian Marines guarding a smooth stone door, Mechanicus-provided weapons in hand. They wore their full combat uniforms, complete with old-style mask-like helmets. As Hannah approached the door, they both nodded their greetings to her. The human Admiral smiled. She knew them almost as well as her own two bodyguards.
As she stepped forward and pushed open the door, her Marines took positions next to their Quarian counterparts. Hannah felt their knowing smiles on her back as she stepped forward. She couldn't help but roll her eyes and grin in reply. Oh, yeah, sure. Smile, Cassandra. As if you're not in the same boat. She knew for a fact that Cassandra, one of her two usual escorts, had a thing going with Lun'Vaarul, one of the two Quarians here. Hannah approved. In fact, she and Cassandra had talked about once or twice, the younger Marine asking her for advice. The Admiral was more than willing to help.
Inside the chamber, standing as straight-backed, elegant, and regal as ever was Rannoch's governor, Rael'Zorah. Gone was his enviro-suit of old; Quarians had no need of them on their ancestral homeworld. Instead Rael wore the sleek yet simple robes so popular with Quarians nowadays. His black hair was cut short and sharp, and Hannah marveled over the fact that she could actually see Quarian faces nowadays. Granted, she had been seeing them unmasked close to four years now, but it never ceased to amaze. When most people thought of Quarians, they still thought of the suits, not the people beneath. It saddened Hannah, yet still she was glad that the Quarians now had a home.
"Hannah? What are you doing here?" asked Rael. His normal hard and thoughtful expression softened to something not seen often on his face: worry. Hannah could only smile in response.
"The Reapers have been sighted on the edge of the system. They'll be here in three, four, hours. I'll be up on the Kilimanjaro soon, so I came to update you," she replied.
"This is a goodbye," said Rael woodenly. His face became stony, nearly masklike. It usually did when he was caught in an emotional situation. Hannah had been trying to get him out of the habit, especially for Tali's sake, but it still remained Rael's nature.
"No," said Hannah with a soft smile. "Not goodbye. I'll see you after the fight."
"But…" At this, Rael actually swallowed, a nervous tick he would not betray around anyone else. "What if… What if we don't…? What if you… what if I…?" There was more emotion in those words than the stately ex-Admiral turned governor had shown in a lifetime. Hannah thought it touching that he worried for her, that he cared enough to worry for her. But he shouldn't worry.
So Hannah stepped forward and silenced those worried with a kiss. Rael stiffened, shocked, then melted into her. He was a big softie. At least, to her. Maybe not to anyone else.
"Don't worry, Rael, because we will see each other after this. I promise." So saying, Hannah gave him one last look and turned to walk out the door. That was as much emotion as either of them could handle for the present.
As she stepped into the hall, Hannah did wonder how John and Tali would react when they found out about their respective parents' interest. Now that would be an interesting conversation. She didn't know if she would relish or dread it. Either way, Hannah did have to admit that her son was right. Quarians were pretty hot.
oOo
Colonel Emir Mihun sniffed as he looked around Rannoch's verdant sky. High above, blues and purples intermixed and swirled with deep oranges and reds. A beautiful sky. For an alien world. The Colonel frowned and looked back at his boots, covered in the planet's dust. It was clay colored and pasty, and despite Mihun's boots being perpetually caked by the stuff, he frowned and tried to shake the dust off. It didn't really work. It never did.
Colonel Mihun was the commander of the Tallarn 71st Armored. An entire brigade of vehicles and men was entrusted to him. Their lives were in his hands. Their lives were always in his hands, and yet now the feeling of responsibility crept up upon Mihun like a pouncing beast. He frowned again. Perhaps it was being on a xenos world that made him feel so, but somewhere deep down he knew it was because they were so far from home. This was an entirely different reality, a new universe, separate from the laws of his own and the reassuring protection of the Golden Throne.
Now he was helping xenos. Like most who came from his desert homeworld, Colonel Mihun was a deeply religious man. He believed in the tenants of the God-Emperor, that the galaxy belonged to humanity and humanity alone. Yet here they were, on the orders of the High Lords, led by Dante and Shrike, heirs to the Ninth and Nineteenth Primarchs, upon this strangely beautiful alien world to help xenos. Mihun shook his head. Why?
He did not doubt the commanders of the crusade, nor did he doubt his place fighting the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum. But still, the doubts lingered. Why xenos? Why help them? Why not just kill them, as Imperial law dictated?
Perhaps… perhaps that was what they would be doing? Ah. That made sense. Use the xenos as additional soldiers to help fight off the armies of darkness, then turn on them when the greater enemy was vanquished. Mihun smiled. Now that made sense. Truely, the wisdom of the God-Emperor knew no bounds.
But still, Mihun's nerves were not assured. Apparently it was not due to the idea of helping xenos (who were remarkably friendly and accommodating for xenos), but rather something more. It definitely could have been the enemies they were facing; while the servants of His Majesty would always win the day, the Dark Mechanicum and these Abominable Intelligence Reapers were nothing to scoff at.
Perhaps that was it. They would be fighting the Reapers on Rannoch, and each of the metal monsters was a Titan-grade kill. In fact, the Reapers were even larger than most Titans. They were like living, moving, malevolent mountains. The Desert Raiders would have to fight them in tanks. While the armor of the Desert Raiders was the pride of the Imperium, what could a Leman Russ, or Sentinel, or even a mighty Baneblade do against something of such colossal size?
Granted, they would mostly be fighting against the Reapers' land forces (i.e. infantry) while the Titans of Legio Honorum would take care of the Reapers themselves. But Colonel Mihun still couldn't shake the profound feeling of horror at the thought of his tanks taking on Titan-grade monstrosities.
But the Emperor always protected the righteous and faithful. Perhaps it wasn't even nerves at the coming battle. Perhaps it was this place, this galaxy that was causing Mihun's feelings of distress. There was no Emperor here, no Astronomicon, no guiding light of the Golden Throne to shine protectively over the Emperor's species. They were in a new reality, on an alien world.
He was just… so far from home.
Behind him, Sergeant Deserimund checked the treads of the Emperor's Talon, Mihun's personal Baneblade. The super-heavy tank sat in all its proper glory upon Rannoch's dusty earth, sponsons and weapons proudly bristling from its sides. It was painted in the desert camouflage typical among Tallarn tanks, and newly cleaned and retrofitted by the regiment's Enginseers for this campaign. Mihun smiled.
Around him, dozens of much smaller Leman Russes idled. Each had the same painting style as the Emperor's Talon; swirling dusty tans and browns. Interestingly, despite the more clay-color of Rannoch's soil, the desert camouflage would most definitely come in handy here.
The Leman Russes were of all different varieties. While most were the typical plain Leman Russ Battle Tanks with the usual armaments, some mounted the heavy vanquisher cannons or the much lighter exterminator autocannons. While the skills and technology required for making vanquisher cannons had largely declined when Tigrus, the forge world famous for their creation, was overrun, Imperial tank commanders loved the additional firepower they gave. Mihun was no exception. He tried to grab up as many vanquisher varieties as he possibly could.
In addition, he also had a singular Leman Russ Executioner. The Colonel smiled at the thought. The Executioner was one of the oldest Leman Russ variants, dating back to the Great Crusade itself. It was also the rarest of all medium tank variants, for instead of a battle cannon it mounted the fearsome executioner plasma cannon. The 71st singular Executioner, Holy Wrath, was a most welcome addition to any engagement.
Mihun stepped forward as Deserimund finished checking the Baneblade's treads. Other crews were doing the same; a tank's treads were its life. Mobility was key in armored battles, and if your treads failed, you died. Mihun was proud of his regiment's methodical attention to their vehicles.
"Everything looking good, Sergeant?" Deserimund turned up and nodded.
"All good, Colonel." Mihun nodded.
"Very good, Sergeant." Turning to look around at his columns of tanks, he activated the comm bead in his ear. "Attention. We have Reapers inbound. Mount up!" he ordered the brigade.
Around him, soldiers climbed onto their tanks and disappeared through hatches. Last checks on systems were made. Sargeant Deserimund clambered up the side of Emperor's Talon, followed closely by Mihun. Both hauled themselves up the armored side of the main turret and wedged themselves into the hatch below.
Inside was the heart of the Baneblade, the clanking metallic interior that made the glorious vehicle exactly what it was: a killing machine of the Emperor's enemies. As Mihun and Deserimund sat down, they were greeted by the turret's third occupant, Private Asar. Mihun nodded a cordial greeting to the main gun's loader as he took his customary seat in the commander's position.
The seat itself was nothing special. A cracking brown leather upholstering covered stuffing that was less padding and more itchy annoyance, but it was still the command seat of a Baneblade. Colonel Mihun had led the 71st Armored to countless victories from this position. He wasn't about to let some machines that thought for themselves beat the Emperor's finest this time.
The interior of the turret was dim and dingy. There was almost no space, for the main gun and its ammunition was the first priority over crew comfort. It reeked of lubrication oil and the sharp tang of shell propellant. Purity seals and Mechanicus blessings littered the surfaces, letting Mihun know that the regimental Enginseers had thoroughly checked everything. The Colonel knew his lightweight tan uniform would be covered in grease, propellant kickback, and a dozen other forms of grime by the end of the day, but he cared not. Such was the life of a tank commander, and Colonel Mihun would not wish to be anywhere else than where he was today. This was where he belonged, his Emperor-wrought duty to the human race.
"All set?" he asked over the Baneblade's internal vox. A myriad of affirmatives greeted him from the nearly dozen crewmembers in the main chassis of the grand tank. From his command position, Mihun read that all other weapons were online and operating at full. The sponson lascannons and bolters were all in perfect condition and being carefully swiveled around by their turret operators. The demolisher cannon on the Baneblade's front was ready to go, and its two designated crewmen were ready for the fight. "Start her up, then, Rhubar!"
"Yes, sir!" came the enthusiastic reply from Sargeant Rhubar, the driver. A deep reverberating, cranking, clanking roar echoed through the interior of the Emperor's Talon as the vehicle's great engine started. Mihun could taste the acrid scent of the engine fumes in the back of his throat. The sanctified targeting equipment came online. Mihun smiled.
"71st, move out! We have abominations to hunt," he gave the order. The crew grinned and cheered as the Tallarn Desert Raiders started out on their mission.
oOo
Brother Rask Lomand of the Iron Fists turned with deadly deliberation, boltgun in hand and already flashing at the ruined form of a corrupted skitarii. One deadly shell, then another, flashed forward. The Dark skitarii howled in pain as the first impacted its weak neck armor, then went completely silent as the second took its head cleanly off its shoulders.
Around him, the brothers of the Iron Fists stood silently, their silver armor gleaming, taking down targets with flawless efficiency. Strengthened with the power of blessed cybernetics, they were stronger than mortals, stronger than the Tech-Priests and skitarii of the Mechanicus, and even stronger than their own cousins among the other chapters of Space Marines. Rask was proud to be a son of Ferrus Manus. The scions of the Tenth Legion were the strongest of all Marines, or at least so Rask believed. Despite their Primarch being the first slain, despite their horrible losses in the ancient Heresy, they were still the strongest. They were always the strongest.
Unlike every other line of Marines in existence, the Iron Hands, and thus all of their successor chapters, Iron Fists included, believed the way the Tech-Priests did. The cold certainty of steel was much more powerful than the pathetic weaknesses of flesh, and the iron logic of computers was far superior to the frailty of organic brains. Thus, much like the servants of Mars, the scions of Manus replaced their feeble flesh with the power of blessed cybernetics.
Rask's HUD flashed, and a small rune informed him his bolter had run out of ammunition. He reloaded methodically, quickly but unhurried, and turned to fire at an advancing group of Husks. Rask did not know if other Marine chapters had the same type of helmet he did, if they were augmented to show everything around them as his was. It was perhaps part of being a son of Manus: Rask's helmet was connected to his head through blessed cybernetics, and showed his ammunition, armor integrity, bodily integrity, and the status of his brothers around him. It was an extremely useful tool, and Rask was once more grateful that he belonged to his chapter, and not some other group of doddering fools.
All around him, in the ruins of some suburb of the main forge of Adas, Reaper forces advanced to try and break through Iron Fist lines. It would not happen, Rask knew. His brothers were far better than the scum that assaulted them.
To Rask's right, Gorloch fired his heavy bolter at waves of incoming Husks, Brutes, Marauders, and filthy corrupted skitarii. The rest of the squad laid down a curtain of firepower that no enemy could ever hope to break through. No bolter shells missed. None could, guided with the power of advanced cybernetics as they were.
The air was filled with smoke from a dozen destroyed buildings and storage locations for Adas's supplies. Around Rask and his brothers, the cacophonous din of battle sounded. Allied air power streaked across the sky, dueling Reaper drones. Much farther back, but still within range of superior Astartes hearing, the mammoth weapons of the god-engines of Legio Honorum discharged into the Reapers themselves. The Titans were supported by the defense weapons of the forge itself, its huge macro cannons and orbital lasers adding their holy power to the fight.
None of that concerned the Iron Fists. They were leading the ground defense. It was their goal to push back and destroy any and all incoming Reaper or Dark Mechanicum infantry. That was a task the Fists would complete with great relish. Their line was the closest to the Mechanicus and Machine God, and so the destruction of the Dark Mechanicum came naturally to them. Only the slayers of their gene-father, the treacherous Third Legion, ranked higher on the scale of those deserving their wrath.
However, their second set of orders, sent from Natrius, Fabricator General of Adas, were not received anywhere near as enthusiastically as the destruction of the traitors. Rask's mouth curled into a horrible sneer beneath his helmet. This Fabricator General needed to go.
Their other orders were to protect xenos. Well, not specifically xenos, but still. As part of the defense of the planet, what workers of the forge that could not fight would be cowering in the rear, in sheltering bunkers. They included a myriad of different species from all sorts of backgrounds; whatever workers Natrius could get, he would accept. The forge was woefully understaffed as it was, but Rask and the Fists didn't have to like it. They were protecting humans, to be sure, but still. Xenos. It was the same principle, and they did end up protecting aliens nonetheless.
The sons of Ferrus Manus, as a whole, subscribed to a doctrine of survival of the fittest. That was always their ethos, and it only increased with the death of their Primarch and near-destruction of their legion during the Heresy. Those that could not fight did not deserve to be protected. Those that could not fight did not deserve to live. Thus was the way of the galaxy.
The Fists would chafe under Natrius's orders even if they were ordered to only protect humans. It was that much worse then, that they were ordered to hold their lines to protect not only humans, not only xenos, but xenos cowards.
The Fists cared not for those in the bunkers behind them, those civilians that could not fight. In fact, the Iron Fists really did not care for anyone here besides the Titans of Legio Honorum. Adas was plainly heresy, and everyone knew that the forces of Stygies were untrustworthy. The Guard was on Rannoch, squishy fleshbags that they were. Useless. The lot of them.
Brother Rask growled as he gunned down another charging monstrosity. Around him, Whirlwind missiles dropped into the Reaper lines. Behind his helmet, Rask gave a small smile as the Reaper and Dark Mechanicum forces were smashed to a pulp under the overwhelming firepower of the Iron Fists. He continued to fire his bolter, ammunition counter gradually depleting in his HUD, as the Whirlwind itself moved up alongside one of the chapter's venerable ancients.
The Whirlwind was a curious but powerful vehicle. It was technically a variant of the powerful Rhino, one of the largest and most deadly assault vehicles in the arsenal of the Space Marines. It looked rather like a British Mk. I tank from World War I, with its side mounted full-chassis tracks and trapezoid shaped body. However, the brilliant part of the Whirlwind variant was that it was a missile launcher and an assault vehicle. Mounted atop the Land raider chassis was a huge launching platform, able to fling explosive death over great distances.
As for the ancient, named Gorloch, his Dreadnought chassis was of the typical style, with a boxy body, a power claw for one arm, and an assault for the other. Rask hoped that one day, he, too could be interred in a Dreadnought's sarcophagus and become more machine than man. His Emperor-given body was good, yes, but it could be so much more. All of the sons of Ferrus Manus respected Dreadnoughts, and aspired to be them. Other Marines thought it was an unhealthy obsession, but who were they to comment? Steel was better than flesh.
With a last burst of fire from Rask's squad, their bolters fell silent. The enemy, mechanical monstrosities that they were, were in full retreat. Rask scoffed. There was an obvious difference between the holy blessings of the Machine God and the terrible corruption of the Reapers and Chaos. The former gave strength, while the latter only bestowed cowardice and weakness.
As the Dreadnought and Whirlwind approached the front lines, additional squads of Iron Fists converged around Rask's position. According to Rask's helmet, which could pull up tactical dispositions, they were exactly where they should be. Everything had been calculated with mathematical precision. The Iron Fists, or at least Rask's company, were in a half-circle in the outskirts of the forge they were to protect, forming a defensive frontline to push back any Reaper infantry that came their way. And, of course, to protect the civilians hidden in the bunkers behind them.
"They're falling back, sir," called Sergeant Ryygros to Captain Josphus. The Captain had approached on foot, beautifully-crafted bolt pistol in hand, to survey his company's defense of the forge.
"Indeed they are," replied the Captain calmly. Coldly. It was not a figment of his personality or commentary on his troops: it was simply just the way things were done in the Iron Fists. Cold calculation was a trait to be admired. Those under Josphus's command certainly did. His steely logic had won many a battle. The Captain cocked his head and turned to the other officers and non-coms. "The main Reaper force is pulling back to our upper left. A skitarii armor group and Titan battlegroup are nearby. If executed quickly, we could crush the Reaper ground forces between our hammer and their anvil. A perfect encirclement."
"Current Reaper forces that would be caught are estimated to be extremely high," offered Lieutenant Jaigus. "Logic dictates that this would be a crushing blow to their ground assault." Rask and the others grinned. The Captain was a strategic mastermind. His enhancements made him just that much more powerful. He could quite literally see the bigger picture as it was happening where no one else could. However…
"Orders are to stay in static defense to protect the forge," said Naehr, another lieutenant. His words were calm' simply one more variable to be thrown into the Captain's consideration. Naehr and the others would follow Josphus's orders, no matter what.
Josphus stood still for a moment, his cybernetic mind calculating. An augmetic limb, encased in silver power armor, reached up to adjust something on his helmet. He turned back to the officers.
"This is an opportunity we cannot pass up," he said. "This will break the current Reaper assault on the forge." The Captain turned to Lieutenant Jaigus. "Jaigus, you will take the men under your command and secure our right. A group of Dark skitarii has fled that way. Hold them up, and make sure they don't pass through to hit our behind in force. Take Ancient Gorloch with you." Jaigus nodded.
"Yes, sir." The Dreadnought, eager for blood, ambled off after Jaigus. Josphus turned to the rest of the Marines.
"The rest of you mount up and come with me. We'll crush those traitorous scum soon enough."
"Sir, calculations report that groups of enemy forces will slip by if we continue this course of action." One of the sargents looked up at Josphus.
"Logic dictates this course of action is the best. The forge's auxiliaries and inner lines of defense will deal with the stragglers." The sargent nodded, satisfied. The Iron Fists mounted on the Whirlwind and a few newly-arrived Rhino APC transports.
Captain Josphus was right. He was correct that this move would sandwich and destroy a major portion of the Reaper infantry assault, and delay their plans for continued ground assaults int he future. There would be stragglers that would slip through into the now-vacated no-man's land of the forge's suburb. He was correct that they would not threaten the forge.
He did indeed also know that the civilian bunkers were located between the forge and the line of defense he was supposed to be providing. However, they didn't even factor into his calculations.
oOo
Elsa Brown ran her hands soothingly through her daughter's hair, seeking to bring some comfort in these horribly uncertain times. Around her, everyone looked nervous. Why shouldn't they be? Yes, they were safe in this bunker, but no one wanted to wait in an underground mess of concrete. Being trapped, even in a safe room in the middle of a war was never a comforting thing. It made one nervous, no matter how safe they truly were.
There were a great many different people here, from all different planets and a surprising amount of different species. Humans and Quarians outnumbered everyone else by far, but there were a few Turians and Drell. All were workers in the forge of Adas. All were ordered here for their own safety by Fabricator General Natrius. Elsa gave a wane smile. The Fabricator General was a good man, though she had never seen him personally. However, actions spoke loudly, and she would still be stuck on Omega, doing all manner of odious things to make a living for herself and daughter if not for him. Welding work was much more pleasant than her old life. Higher paying, too. Natrius needed workers; money was not a concern for him.
The people around her may have had many different stories to tell, but they all were happy on Adas. The Quarians were treated well by the servants of the Machine God, and offered a place where their technological skills could shine. They received immune system upgrades, and could have as many children as they wanted. A Quarian's dream. In fact, everyone was encouraged to have as many children as possible, for children were the future of the Adas forge.
So all around Elsa was a sea of families, of small children oblivious to the full extent of the war on and nervous parents trying to comfort them. Elsa did not know what was going on outside, only that everything here was fine. They had enough supplies, and none of the children, of any species, were making trouble. She even smiled as she saw a mixed group of Quarians, humans, Turians, and even two Drell playing with each other. The Mechanicus might have preached human supremacy, but she had been on Omega long enough to know that species didn't matter, only the individual. A person could be a saint or devil regardless of what species they were.
Without warning, the massive adamantium double doors guarding the bunker entrance were shook by a huge force. Children screamed. Adults stood and backed away, hiding their sons and daughters behind their legs. The door actually bent inwards at the force. Elsa stood, wide-eyed. Her daughter started to cry.
The doors were hit again, and again, and again until finally they were bodily thrown from their hinges.
oOo
"Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and seventy six!" roared Felis Natrius, Fabricator General of Adas. If his face was still flesh, it would be wearing a look of such pure, sneering hatred it would be enough to stop the heart. Across from him, Chapter Master Kastal Verchen crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and seventy-six!" repeated Natrius. He spun on his claw-like legs and advanced menacingly on the Chapter Master. Verchen had to give him credit: he was absolutely unafraid of the Marine. "Your orders were to stay in defense and protect them, not advance and let them be slaughtered!"
Reports of the Iron Fists' behavior had been coming in to Natrius throughout the day. The Fabricator General of Adas had originally been very happy at their arrival, for Space Marines were always welcome and the Mechanicus had always had a good relationship with the scions of the Tenth Legion as a whole.
However, Natrius had forgotten exactly how callous they could be, especially when having to interact with other allied forces in the battlefield. Already, an auxiliary commander, a Quarian, had come to him nearly crying in rage and said that the Iron Fists had refused to lessen their fire at Reaper forces despite his platoon being trapped between Fist and Reaper lines. The commander himself had been brushed off by an Iron Fist sergeant, who simply told them they shouldn't have been in their firing lines.
Honestly, Natrius wasn't surprised. He'd heard a story once that the Iron Hands had done the same to the Raven Guard, gunning them down without mercy as their cousins were trapped in no-man's land. The explanation was the same. According to the plan, they shouldn't be there, and the Marine guns never stopped for a moment.
The willful abandonment of civilians, mostly families, thus probably shouldn't have come as a surprise, especially considering the Iron Fists's mantra of survival of the strongest. However, Natrius had left specific orders that they were to stay in place. He was both utterly furious over the deaths of his people and the Marines' disobeyment of his orders.
"Captain Josphus only did what was logical," replied Verchen stonily. "In a brilliant tactical move, he crushed the majority of the Reaper ground assault and put their plans into disarray. Besides, the numbers of Reaper and Dark Mechanicum soldiers killed far outnumbers your dead… civilians." The Chapter Master had to hold back from calling names. It wouldn't help his case.
Natrius went from hot rage to stone cold fury. His blue optics glared at Verchen unblinkingly. Thus was the brutal calculus of war for the Iron Fists. It was a numbers game to them, only their numbers were the only ones that mattered. Everyone else were acceptable casualties.
Oh, yes, he could rage at how cold, how unfeeling Verchen was being. How could one simply leave the defenseless to die? Natrius knew it wouldn't work. Humanity was a foreign word to these cybernetic super-soldiers. Logic was all that mattered, even if their logic was heavily skewed.
"They are not so easily replaced," hissed Natrius. Verchen continued to stare down, arms crossed unmovingly. "Why do you think I accept so many different groups from so many different areas, regardless if they have experience or not? I need people to work in my forge, Chapter Master, otherwise nothing will run." Verchen waved an adamantine gauntlet dismissively.
"They are simply cogs in a machine. Nothing more." Natrius saw an opportunity.
"Yes! Exactly! But I have a shortage of cogs, and no replacements! And you just allowed what cogs I have to be destroyed."
"They are useless in the war. They cannot fight. What happens to them is of no concern. You can always get more after the war," replied Verchen dismissively.
"I cannot!" fired back Natrius. "Unlike in the Imperium, lives are not our greatest resource here. I cannot simply just go get more."
"Have Mars ship in more after the conflict ends," said Verchen in the same unimpressed tone.
"That's not how it works!" roared Natrius. "It will take time! Time I do! Not! Have! My forge requires fuel, and workers are fuel. Without them, Adas will wither and die." Verchen tilted his head, as if to say, "Would that really be such a bad thing?" Natrius scowled at the man. "This is the first forge world in this new galaxy, by the direct order of the Fabricator General of Mars. We are here to keep an eye out on the Quarians, and will establish new forge worlds in xenos territory to keep an eye on them. That is the point, Chapter Master. I don't care if you like it or not, but you will do as I say on my forge or cog help me I will strip your support from Mars!"
For the first time in their argument, Verchel actually looked shocked. Based upon cold logic, and what readings the Chapter Master was able to gain from his cybernetics, Natrius would very well carry out his threat.
And that threat was not a light one. Oh, no. Definitely not. Much like anyone else in the Imperium, a Space Marine chapter got all of their technology and weaponry from the Mechanicus. Their Techmarine armorers were trained by the Magi of the Red Planet. If the Mechanicus disavowed them, then it meant no more weapons, no more power armor, no more armored or aerial vehicles, no more Dreadnoughts, no more replacement gene-seed not harvested from the chapter's brothers, and no more Techmarines.
Of course, to entirely disavow a Space Marine chapter was no light feat. Verchel could call Natrius's bluff and take this to the Machanicus's leaders… but did he want to? Was it worth the hassle? Indeed, who would the Fabricator General side with? His personal pet project in this new galaxy, or with a singular Marine chapter? Verchel frowned as he considered. He would receive no support from the Iron Hands in his plea. Therefore, it really just was a singular Marine chapter against the technology of this new galaxy. Would the Fabricator General risk disavowing him over a slight he was technically correct in and risk the possible wrath of all sons of the Tenth Legion? Probably not. But would he run the risk that his chapter's support from Mars really would be cut off.
The answer was a very painful no. Verchel drew a deep sigh and looked down at the defiant Natrius.
"Very well. Your orders stand. No more risking the safety of your resources." Natrius nodded as Verchel turned and strode out of the chamber.
oOo
"What in the blazes is this?" roared Inquisitor Vell as the very floors and walls lurched around him. His personal ship, the Machine Watcher, was not due to Adas for another hour or two. Or, at least, that was what Vell had been told. It was not out of the question that the Warp currents had shifted, giving them a much quicker journey.
However, the reentry into the Materium shouldn't have been this sudden or violent. What was happening? Storming forward, Vell entered the central command area. The wrath of an Inquisitor was nothing to be trifled with, and coupled with their odd entry, the crew cowered in front of him. Vell took another stride and crossed his arms, frowning down at Yuric, the Tech-Priest attached to his retinue.
"What's going on?" he snapped. Yuric's mechadendrites were plugged into a central console, and he looked up to Vell nervously.
"I have no idea." The Tech-Priest did not cower, per say, but looked like he wanted to. "Everything was fine… now it's not." Vell bit back a horribly sarcastic retort and frowned once more.
"Where are we? What happened?" he asked.
"We're not where we're supposed to be, my lord," replied Yuric. "We're… we're above Reaper territory. That's why the entry was so sudden-"
"What?" demanded Vell. "How are we above Reaper territory?" He spun to another crewman. "Get us out of here!" he snapped. The crewman nodded hastily and turned back to a cogitator bank. "What happened?" roared Vell. Yuric gulped and went back to his console.
"I… I'm not sure, my lord," he admitted. "We should be above the Tikkun System as we speak!"
"Has the Navigator made a mistake, what with traveling the Warp currents of this new galaxy? Are our navigational charts accurate?" hissed Vell.
"The Warp here is calm and placid! Unless we were pulled out by something…" Yuric frowned and checked again. "No! We weren't! I don't understand it! The charts provided by Lord Cawl are completely accurate-" Vell crossed the distance between himself and the Tech-Priest in a heartbeat and grabbed onto the collar of the man's red robes.
"Cawl? Cawl gave us the navigational charts?"
"Well, uh, yes, my lord. He is the only one to explore this galaxy at length and-" Vell let him go. He knew what had happened. Politics. Only he didn't actually think the Archmagos had the gall to go this far to protect the secrets of Adas and this new reality.
"Cawl, you son of a-" Vell never finished his sentence, as the Machine Watcher was annihilated by the Reapers a second later.
One down, three to go. Though, perhaps Morris and Valorn could stay. There was another two in mind…
oOo
Codex:
Tallarn Desert Raiders:
The Tallarn Desert Raiders is the name of the regiment of Imperial Guard soldiers raised from the desert world of Tallarn whose soldiers are highly skilled at desert and armored warfare. The Desert Raiders are mobile guerilla fighters, elusive and opportunistic. Masters of hit-and-run mobile warfare, they are well-known for their lightning quick squadrons of Sentinel walkers and Leman Russ tanks. Once a fertile agri-world, Tallarn was devastated by the Iron Warriors Traitor Legion during the ancient Horus Heresy. Under the orders of Perturabo, Lord of Iron, the traitors unleashed virus bombs on the planet, scouring it of almost all life, leaving only pockets of survivors in sealed subterreanean vaults. The Tallarn then fought the Iron Warriors in the largest tank battle in history, using armored vehicles to protect them from the poisoned air. Even though there were hundreds of millions of vehicles on both sides, the Tallarn could not hope to face the might of the Fourth Legion in open combat, and so developed a quick-hitting, eluding strategy of guerrilla warfare.
In the centuries following the Heresy, the poisons of the virus bombs have long since dissapaited, but the surface of Tallarn itself was forever changed from a fertile agri-world to a barren desert. The tactics of that ancient war also followed the people of Tallarn. They are well known today for their use of armored regiments and guerrilla-style warfare. Practical, pragmatic, willful and independent, the Tallarn Desert Raiders are the considered masters of Imperial tank warfare.
Iron Fists:
The Iron Fists are a successor chapter of the Iron Hands. While their exact founding is unknown, it is extremely likely they are of one of the earlier Space Marine foundings, perhaps the Second or Third. The Iron Fists are much like their parent chapter, the Iron Hands, and subscribe to their beliefs and practices with little to no deviation. Both chapters are well-known for their ideals that the flesh is weak and only the strong are worthy of survival. They also bear a strange duality between logic and emotion. While they subscribe to only logic, they are prone to emotion nonetheless. This is a trait some suspect they received from their gene-father, while others think it is because they constantly temper their Astartes biology with cybernetics.
The Iron Fists are known for their technological aptitude, cybernetics, close ties with the Iron Hands, and using Storm Shields that are molded in the shapes of gauntlets.
oOo
There we have it! I hope you liked seeing Natrius and Reer again. I also hope you liked the Baneblade scene. In addition, I do hope I portrayed the Iron Fists (who are pretty much the same as their parent chapter) correctly. The Iron Hands and their successors are vastly underutilized and rarely spoken of, so it's somewhat hard to get them down, especially because they're not one of my favorites. I've always found their odd tendency for extreme emotion even with their doctrine of logic to be interesting, and I hope I portrayed that aspect of them correctly. Again, check out the other posted story! I think you'll like it. Also, I know what many of you want to see, so patience. Most of what you guys want is coming. I'm writing as fast as I can, for I'm just as eager as you to see it. So, stay tuned, and, as always, I appreciate any comments, questions, criticisms, concerns, and reviews! (For just this chapter) Kelaah na'sal and Glory to the Machine God!