I am back! This was originally supposed to be one chapter of the final battle, but it got away from me, and there were too many details to include, so you're going to get a two-parter. For last chapter, I wanted to mention that I thought a lot about who exactly would be showing up to save the day. I thought about the Legion of the Dammed, but I but a restriction on this fic that the Warp cannot cross into the Mass Effect galaxy to prevent the Dark Gods and daemons from meddling. Similarly, I thought about having the God-Emperor posess Shepard as His avatar and smoke everyone, but, again, rules and I have a better idea. Ultimately, though, none of theose seemed to fit for the story. It was then that I thought of Trazyn, and I immediately went with that, because it's a pre-established character, and fits both the story and Trazyn's own character.
As for this chapter, I don't want to spoil anything for this chapter, so please read the end notes before making a review. Speaking of which, I thank you all for your reviews! I greatly appreciate them, and thanks to everyone who has read and stuck around long enough for the final battle, and thanks to all of you who have stayed with me from the beginning!
Clare Prime of Ultra: Sorry. "My Will Be Done" is actually also a necron command used by overlords to control lesser beings, and I thought it would work against Hal's code.
hunter 139: Thank you. I will try my best for the better late than never. I've had plans for the upcoming chapters for a while, so I hope they work and I hope you like them. I'm also glad you like Trazyn!
gabekaykwok: There will be a crossover in the future, and it will involve Star Wars, though it won't be before or during the Clone Wars. However, for everyone reading, I can give my utmost assurance that you will enjoy it.
Colossus Bridger: It's Trazyn time!
Savior16: That made me laugh. Thank you for that.
Dandaman5: Thank you. I hope you enjoy this one and the ones to come.
Dragon Blaze-X: I'm glad you like Trazyn, and hope you enjoy what's to come!
HyperUnity: I took his enternce (or, at least, the battle cries) from The Infinite And the Divine, which is a great book. I agree: this certainly fits Trazyn's character. He's a guy who has to do the most dramatic thing at all times.
Cringeyusername SBSQVV: I'm glad you liked both the chapter and Trazyn!
lucho406: Indeed he is. As for the Sanguinor, we'll see.
Hunter19941: Indeed. Nihilakh Ascendent!
ChaosRaptorEye: I have a way to fix that problem I'm glad you liked both Trazyn and last chapter!
Brother Bov: Trazyn indeed. As for the Custodians... watch. Also, thank you for reading and staying with me all this time. I truly apprecaite it.
Yankee718: Yeah, that was the intended reaction for Kasumi's death. Sorry, Kasumi. May you find peace in the Emperor's golden halls. I'm glad you liked Trazyn, though, and if that was your reaction, then it is a great compliment to my writing, so thank you.
187: That was my intended reaction. I'm glad I was able to get it across well enough. As for the remaining characters... we'll see.
Guest: Thank you!
Austin: The hype is still here! Kepp it alive for one more chapter and the aftermath! Thank you for your review!
Guest: That is correct. The Undying Legions shall conquer in the name of the Infinite and the Silent King.
Guest: Trazyn has plans, as we'll see in this and the coming chapters.
PaladinSans: Thank you! As for the Custodes... watch.
Guest: Indeed. Too bad the Silent King isn't here to talk to Dante and Shepard. That would make for one hell of a scene.
valhalan guardsman: Thank you, and thank you for reading and staying with me for all this time, ever since the begining of Technophiles. I truly appreciate it.
RememberReach312: Indeed. Trazyn will be Trazyn. I hope you like this chapter!
gods-own: Thank you! I'm glad you liked the twist. And thank you for reading this long, I really apprecaite it.
Fernix13: Trazyn is here for the stuff. He doesn't care too much about anything else, so he won't bee too much of a balance-killer. Thank you for your (as usual) very insightful review. I know that logically there are a lot more things going on, but unfortunately I do not have the time or space to write everything happening in a full-scale galactic war, or we'd be here for years, and unlike some writers on this site I actually want to finish. Ther's plenty that I wanted to include, and I do thank your for pointing out everyhting you do because it is very helpful and has led me to some important insights, but ultimately I cant' include everything, though I wish I could.
Anatheras: Thank you! I'm glad you liked it, and I thank you for your review. As for Trazyn, I understand your opinion, but it felt to me like the most right thing to happen (and, also, as you said, I have a plan). I hope you like this chapter, and I want to thank you for reading for this long. I truly appreciate it.
Chronus1326: Thank you! As for this chapter, I remember your reviews wanting for a longer, slower-paced space battle, which I have here, so you'll have to tell me how well I've done. Thank you for reading my stories for as long as you have, I truly appreciate it.
MEleeSmasher: You are very correct. Thanks for your reviews. I appreciate them.
BonesofSmite: I'm glad you liked it, and hope you like this chapter. Thank you for staying with me for so long, and thanks for all your reviews. I really appreciate them.
taintedahab: Indeed. GYou've gotta love Trazyn.
shipwreck321: Thank you. Trazyn will be Trazyn.
Intilligencer: So, I'm a bit conflicted about your review. First off, I'd like to thank you for mentioning that the nova cannon fired at the speed of sound, because that was a typo I didn't catch. It was supposed to be speed of light, which has since been fixed. Secondly, while I appreciate the fact that you prefaced your review with the "don't brush it off" comment, and while I certainly appreciate your viewership, your comment came across as rude. The "deficate on a keyboard" phrase was particularly unnecessary. Third, while I certainly understand your point, I will not be doing the math behind Warhammer 40k and Mass Effect. They are made-up fictional universes, and thus the math couldn't correct. In addition, I don't care for math, and neither do the vast majority of the people reading care about its inclusion. As mentioned to another reviewer who wanted me to include the logistical side of things, I don't have the time or space to include either that or figure out precisely what would happen to what. If you or he wants to write a fic that reads like a WW2 essay (which would actually be very cool; I'd read it, certainly), feel free to, but think of mine as more movie style. I'm tryig to include and balance a bunch of people and characters to the best of my aility, and I'm only one person. I can't so that much. Ultimately, I thank you for your review, though it could have been worded better and I probably won't include any specific, fully-figured out details like you want.
Savior16: Thank you. That is another point; everything needs to be balanced, without 40k stomping over everyone.
Dovahsinn270: Thank you. YOu are very correct on Trazyn's character. As for the Olympus.. well, stay tuned.
oOo
From Golden Light They Come
"Only in death does duty end…" -Imperial saying
"Only the deathless can comprehend the burden of unfailing loyalty." -Royal Warden Vargard Obyron of the Sautekth Dynatsy
oOo
The combined Imperial and Alliance fleets that had been forced from their position above Earth were now orbiting Venus. Disordered, disorganized, and demoralized, the various ships of the Imperial and Alliance Navies mingled with the Titan conveyors of Ignatum, the vessels of the Mechanicus, and the chapter fleets of the Consecrators, Raven Guard, and Blood Angels. All were frustrated as they hung in Venus's orbit, unmolested yet unable to perform their function above humanity's sacred homeworld.
They had been this way ever since the Olympus Mons had shown up above Earth, and ever since, the admirals and captains had tried desperately to come up with some plan to defeat it and take back void supremacy, yet none was yet forthcoming.
In the strategy room aboard the Throne of Terra, the current flagship of the Imperial Navy, the various high commanders of the combined fleets were assembled to try and figure out a plan to take down the Olympus and take back the space above Earth.
Lord Admiral Stilicho was dead. Hackett and Admiral Vetruvius of the Imperial Navy were the current commanders of the combined navy. Around them stood the various captains and lesser admirals of the fleets, as well as the senior Tech-Priests of the Mechanicus that had been aboard their vessels at the time of the Olympus's arrival.
"But we must do something!" said one of the Imperial captains, pounding his hand on the table. Hackett looked at him in exasperation. This one was part of the "way too overzealous" sub-faction of Imperial schools of thought.
"Getting ourselves killed and the entire fleet destroyed isn't going to help anyone but the traitors," snapped another Imperial, crossing her arms and staring at the first man.
"If it is our duty to die, then so be it! A fleet that sails under the protection of our Lord cannot be beaten. Is Captain Auriel suggesting it can be?" Hackett rubbed his temples as the room devolved into petty bickering, each person and faction trying to shout the other down. Many of the Alliance captains looked on nervously while a few enthusiastically threw their support behind one group or another.
"Enough!" shouted Admiral Vetruvius, annoyed. "This solves nothing! We must come up with a legitimate plan to try and defeat the Olympus. Does anyone have any ideas besides sail in at full tilt and get blown up?" There was a pointed silence. Hackett sighed.
"What are the latest updates from the Zama?" asked one of the Alliance captains. The Zama was an Alliance frigate hanging far out in the space beyond the moon, spying at a distance at the Reaper and Dark Mechanicum fleet orbiting Earth. It was extremely dangerous work, and at that distance the Zama couldn't get much information, but it was better than nothing.
"The Olympus is still orbiting above Vancouver. The rest of the traitor fleet is still in their current positions," sighed the Alliance information officer. The room devolved into murmuring.
"What about-?" An Imperial captain was about to suggest something, but was interrupted by a most unexpected source.
Hackett and the rest of the room's occupants turned as one of the astropaths sitting on a crude bench at the side of the room gave a sudden joyous shout. Hackett knew what astropaths were, and though the Imperials hated them and cautioned him of their power, he tried to feel sympathy for the psykers. However, it was hard to do so when they were just so… weird.
The astropath in question, skin corpse-pale and paper-thin, stood up and whooped with glee once more, uncaring at the stares being leveled his way.
"They have returned! They have returned; returned to Holy Terra!" he shouted joyously. The rest of the naval personnel looked at him strangely, trying to pick apart the astropath's cryptic words. "Oh, joyous day! The sons of our Lord Defender have come to fight for Terra once more!"
oOo
Aboard the Alliance frigate Zama, the bridge officers huddled nervously at their stations. Everything was dead silent, the crew only speaking in whispers to each other. It might have been more superstition than anything else, but no one wanted to make any noise that could be transmitted to the Dark Mechanicum's sensors. The entire ship was silent and stealthy, running as quietly as possible.
The captain and crew alike knew the risk of watching the Reaper and Dark Mechanicum fleets, even at this distance. Despite having enough space to (hopefully) get away if they were noticed, Captain Truman and the rest of the crew couldn't shake the feeling that they would be surprised and obliterated. An Alliance frigate stood little chance against a Reaper, let alone something like the Olympus Mons.
As the crew huddled around, waiting for the sensory officers to give them updates on the enemy fleet's movements, Captain Truman paced up and down the deck, hands clasped neatly behind her back. She tried to hide her nervousness; hopefully it wouldn't translate to the crew.
"Captain!" called one of the sensor officers. Truman spun around. The other officers in the bridge all stopped what they were doing to look over at the sensor station. Truman walked forward.
"What is it, lieutenant?" she asked crisply. The lieutenant looked up from his station, fear in his eyes.
"We're getting readings for a Warp portals opening between Earth and the moon," said the man, pointing to his screen. Captain Truman peered forward, taking a look. Straightening, she looked back at the sensor officer.
"Do we know who they are?" she asked. Around them, the other officers and crew waited with bated breath. The lieutenant shook his head.
"No, ma'am," he replied. "But, ah," and with this, he gulped, adam's apple bobbing, "There are quite a few of them, and this one, right here in the center," he jammed a finger at a single reading on his screen, "Is huge. Like… massive."
"How big?" asked the gunnery officer, piping up from the back. The sensor lieutenant turned to face her.
"Like… bigger than the Olympus big. Nearly the size of the goddamn moon big." Truman's eyes widened to almost bug-like proportions. She spun to the rest of the bridge.
"Battle stations! Communications officer, report this in! Helmsman, I want us out and away from the moon and into deeper space, now!" she ordered. The alarm for general quarters sounded as the bridge exploded into activity.
In front of the Zama, a Warp portal exploded into reality. Truman and the rest of the crew shielded their eyes, throwing their hands in front of their faces to block the awful light of unreality shining through the frigate's windows. Even though the Zama was far away from the portal, its sheer behemoth size caused it to be as visible as a celestial body to any aboard the ship.
As the Warp portal glowed with its horrible unreality, shining a psychedelic every color yet no color at the same time, it spat out…
It spat out…
It…
By God, what was that thing?
Orders temporarily forgotten, the crew of the Zama simply stared in awe at… well, whatever that thing was.
It was the size of a small moon, easily visible even at this far range. It was built in the typical Imperial style, with beautifully, head-spinningly ornate gothic architecture. However, this was no star ship; far from it. From what Truman could tell, this was some sort of space station, bigger than even the Citadel. It looked like a floating cathedral the size of the moon. Shocked, Truman quietly pinched herself. Maybe this was a dream. She felt the sharp bite of pain in her skin. Nope. This was real.
Towering crenulations and flying buttresses, all carved to a ridiculously detailed degree, poked from thousands of points, all scraping the very void of space as if to tell the uncaring cosmos they were nothing compared to humanity's might. Towers reached heights that would have put them into the atmosphere on a planet. Above all, in the highest tower directly in the center of the station was an utterly massive rounded stained glass window of yellow displaying a clenched black fist.
Truman had seen the ships of the Imperium: the Throne of Terra, current flagship of the fleet and the Imperial Wrath were easily fifteen kilometers, with more power and glorious architecture and far more gold than she'd ever seen before. However, the starships of the Imperial Navy paled in comparison to the huge ark mechanicuses like the unfortunate Serendipity. Such vessels were technological wonders beyond compare, and the weaponry and ornate metal filigree of their design made Truman and the rest of the Alliance captains salivate.
Then, of course, there was the Covenant of Baal, flagship of the Blood Angels, perhaps the most grand vessel in the combined Imperial fleet, with a design so beautiful it nearly brought one to tears. But this… This was on an entirely different level.
Nothing, nothing, could even compare to this floating monument of Imperial glory. Not the Throne of Terra, not the Serendipity, not the Covenant of Baal; not even the Olympus Mons was anything close to it.
Indeed, even now there were smaller vessels transitioning into space near the moon beside the massive star fortress. A full Space Marine chapter fleet, all bearing the same clenched black fist on a background of yellow, complete with battle barges, cruisers, and a few battleships to rival even the Avenger, Reliquaria, and Covenant of Baal jumped in directly beside the behemoth star fortress. Truman and the rest didn't even take note of them; they were so miniscule in comparison to the grand space station that they simply did not register.
In addition to the smaller Marine vessels, three more Warp portals opened beside the space station. These were larger than even the huge battleships of the fleet. As the twisting, churning portals coalesced into existence, they spat out three ships of solid gold nearly thirty kilometers in length each.
The vessels were like nothing Captain Truman had ever seen. They did not comply with normal Imperial architectural standards. Instead of looking like Gothic cathedrals, they looked more like ancient triremes, with flowing style and sweeping eagle's wings throughout the superstructure. The sharp prow, decorated in gold and crimson with hints of white and black, made up the snarling head and beak of an eagle, while the decorative wings were mounted farther back.
Guns and cannons were mounted throughout, and the strangeness, newness, power and intricacy of the vessels were like nothing Truman had ever seen. However, even these huge battleships of glowing gold were outmatched by the size, beauty, and might of the space station.
Everyone on the bridge crew was gaping, their jaws quite literally hanging open. There was simply no other response that could cope with the arrival of… this.
So stunned was the crew that the beeping of the Zama's incoming comms system sounded in the background for a full ten seconds before the comms officer hurriedly brought up the incoming message.
All the crew simply stood and continued to stare as the deep baritone voice of a Space Marine played over the Zama's internal comms as the huge space station and its escorts made their way towards Earth and the waiting enemy fleet.
"This is Captain Tor Garadon of the Phalanx. Hear me, foul servants of Darkness and loyal servants of humanity! When the traitors besieged Terra in the dark days of the Heresy, our gene-father stood resolute at its gates and threw them back. Even when humanity was nearly overrun, he and his proud Legion stood tall. Why should his regal daughter prove any different?"
oOo
Several Weeks Before
Within the Sanctum of a Thousand Eyes, Imperial Palace, Holy Terra
Dominating an entire district of the Imperial Palace, the Sanctum of a Thousand Eyes was a fortress within a fortress. Armored bastions rose high in the air, with automated defense turrets from humanity's Golden Age swiveling, always on the lookout for threats.
The bastion was lit by electro-braziers and arc-lumens of mammoth size, all positioned to illuminate five hundred enormous eagle statues lining the Sanctum's upper battlements. Each was as large as a Baneblade, and carved from Terran granite. These ominous statues were all posed in vigilant stances, some staring up into the stars or middle-distance while others peered down upon the streets of Terra far below.
Superstitions ran rife that the eagles of the Sanctum could perceive disloyalty no matter where it lay, and that the God-Emperor Himself looked through their unblinking avian eyes to see the darkness in the hearts of men. While perhaps not true in its entirety, the sentiment remained correct: each eagle contained an extraordinary complex array of long-range sensors, cogitation banks and multispectral listening devices that fed floods of information into the Sanctum's data shrines.
Within the Sanctum itself, stone walls towered thousands of feet in the air, covered in intricate carvings so ornate it made most Imperial cathedrals look pathetically bare. Screens lit the side of the room, showing countless images of both the Palace, Terra, the planets of the Sol System, and other areas of interest throughout the galaxy. The Throne watched and saw all. Beneath the watchful eyes of thousands of servo-skulls and, of course, the statued eagles, the Custodians of the Dread Host milled about.
The Sanctum of a Thousand Eyes was the seat of the Dread Host, Instruments of the Emperor's Wrath and stalwart guardians of the Emperor of Mankind. They were a Shield Host of the Custodes, and it was their duty not to wait and defend Terra, but to scout out direct threats to the Golden Throne and unleash the Emperor's own fury upon them.
In the center of the Sanctum, lit by dozens of flickering braziers and seemingly hundreds of screens, Custodian officers stood in their golden auramite plate.
The one in the center was easily recognizable as Trajan Valoris, Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes. His armor was regal and ornate, the cloak upon his back swirling and contrasting beautifully with the golden plate he wore.
In front of the Captain-General was Shield-Captain Thrax, Commander of the Dread Host. His left shoulder pauldron was black, and white strips adorned his armor; the marks of a Custodian of the Dread Host.
Around the Custodian officers stood their aids and bodyguards, all standing respectfully as one of the Dread Host watchers spoke.
"It is confirmed that Arch Heretek Hal will make his way to this alternate Terra," said the man with a bow. "He will try and take the world, then the galaxy for himself."
"Indeed he shall," said Valoris, a frown upon his scarred face. His helmet was off, revealing extremely short-cut brown hair and pale skin. None but his brothers had ever seen him without it. Such was the way of the Custodes. "And he must not succeed." The Captain-General looked around the room. "This is why I am here. Your reports of Kelbor-Hal's activity are in concurrence with visions from the Emissaries Imperialis and reports from the Eyes of the Emperor. The Arch-Herek's manipulations must not be allowed to succeed, and this alternate galaxy must not be allowed to fall." Valoris paused a moment, taking in the visages of the golden-armored warriors around him. "I am ordering you to this alternate galaxy." The members of the Dread Host murmured in the background.
"My lord…" One of the captains paused, collecting his thoughts before making his argument. "This is not of our galaxy; not even of our reality! Certainly the Marines and the mortal soldiers can deal with this! There are far more pressing threats to the safety of the Golden Throne here, especially with the malications of Chaos. Besides," he said, looking around, seeking support, "Ordo Sinister, the Left Hand of our Master, has been deployed to Terra as well. Certainly, they do not need us, and our arrival will cause great stir-"
"Peace," replied Valoris, holding up his hand. "This is the Arch Heretek Hal we are speaking of. His treachery breaks the most ancient of Imperial law, even before the Primarchs themselves: the Treaty of Mars. He is the singular largest threat and priority we have, and now we have a chance to end him once and for all while we know where he is, and is separate from the Warp." The members of the Dread Host nodded cautiously, taking in their commander's words. "Thus, I am ordering the Moiraides to deploy alongside the Phalanx and the Imperial Fists. The Phalanx shall take the Arch Heretek's ship from the sky, and you shall destroy him on the ground." Shield-Captain Thrax nodded.
"By your command, Captain-General," he replied with a bow. He turned to speak orders to his men.
"All three Moiraides," said the Captain-General, the words cutting through the room like a scalding iron.
Instantly, there was more murmuring. The members of the Adeptus Custodes were above such things as having an uproar, but if it could be said they had one, now would be the time.
"All three, Captain-General?" asked Thrax, astounded.
"All three," replied Valoris with certainty. Thrax's eyes widened. The Dread Host were the bringers of the Emperor's judgment, His anger and punishment made manifest. It was not their task to wait on Terra to defend the Sol System or the Palace, but to find the most visible and dramatic threats to the Throne and annihilate them with overwhelming force.
The Dread Host itself was organized into a number of smaller Shield Hosts and transported aboard a trio of mighty Dark Age warships called the Moiraides. The Moiraides were completely unique; their power beyond comprehension. Sometimes one warship was sent, sometimes two, but only a handful of times in the entire history of the Imperium were all three Moiraides loosed upon a single foe. The act was nearly unheard of.
Valoris's eyes bored into Thrax's, cold, piercing, and powerful. Instantly, the murmuring in the Sanctum died down as the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes spoke.
"Your orders are simple. Go to this alternate galaxy, deliver the Emperor's Judgment… and drag the traitor back to Terra in chains."
oOo
The Undying Legions of Solemnace advanced through the plains of central America, the light of Sol gleaming off their metallic silver bodies. Beams of glowing pale green energy swept across the battlefield, disintegrating anything they touched. The standard-issue weapon of the necron infantry, the fearsome gauss flayer, was a marvel of engineering far beyond the scope of any lesser race. Whatever the pale beams touched, they disintegrated, their very molecules disassembled into nothingness. Armor, cybernetics, and advanced genetics alike were nothing against the power of necron weaponry.
The soldiers of Solemnace continued forward in perfect phalanx formation. The lychguard, crypteks, and Trazyn himself made up the center with formations of normal necron infantry to the sides. Beams of eldritch pale green light swept the way clear of Dark Mechanicum and Reaper forces, leaving the lychguard free to advance.
Tempests of storm and fire flew from the center of the formation, the results of the crypteks at work. Gouts of plasma flame, burning white-hot in their intensity, melted skitarii into sludge as crackling tornados of glowing violet and yellow shredded legions of Husks. The earth itself beneath the enemies' feet quaked and shook, rearing up to swallow Brutes and Cannibals whole even as it stopped skitarii charges.
Unlike the psykers of humanity or other races, the power of necron crypteks did not derive from the Immaterium. Instead, the powers of the necron lords were based upon science, and science alone. Their knowledge of the physical universe was unmatched, and the scientist warriors of the Infinite Empire used that knowledge to manipulate the universe's fundamental forces to produce effects that seemed like magic to lesser beings.
The very air crackled with fire and lightning and the earth itself bucked and reared throughout enemy lines. Gauss flayers annihilated Husks and skitarii into so much dust in the wind. Nothing could stop the armies of Solemnace and the Infinite Empire.
Scything through the forces of the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum, the lychguard came through the center, putting down any and all remaining resistance. Their warscythes and hyperphase swords easily slid through flesh, bone, and metal alike. Nothing could stop the molecular weapons of the Infinite Empire; nothing else in the galaxy came close to their bleeding-edge technology.
Surrounded by his lychguard and crypteks, Trazyn himself strode across the battlefield resolute and untouched. The Archaeovist of Solemnace was an individual of extraordinary power, with a dizzying array of terrifying powers and technologies at his command. Yet he did not need to burden himself with the battle at hand. Indeed, what extraordinary few Dark Mechanicum and Reaper creatures had managed to make it past the combined bombardment of the crypteks and necron warriors were instantly cut down by the lychguard, their diced bodies thrown to the side by shields and subsequently trampled beneath metal feet.
However, this was not the only fight on the planet. This was, after all, a planet-wide war, and merely smashing through the main enemy push from Vancouver would not win the war. Nay. There were other battles, other campaigns all throughout the planet, and if the war for Earth was to be won, Hal defeated, and the galaxy safekept for collecting, then those other battles must by won.
Trazyn smiled to himself. Unlike many necron Overlords, the Undying Legions were not his only armies.
Thank the Dead Gods for surrogate hosts.
oOo
On the plains of central Europe, a combined Mordian Iron Guard and Alliance Marine force struggled against overwhelming numbers of skitarii. The battle was chaotic and desperate, with weapon fire of all sorts streaking across the field, darkening the sky. Leman Russ tanks, painted in the midnight blue of Mordian, crawled along the edges of the formation, spitting high-explosive death into skitarii and Reaper ranks. Screams, both those of the wounded soldiers and of the thrashing skitarii, echoed through the air.
Behind the allied line, unseen by anyone, Trazyn the Infinite stepped from a glowing portal through time and space. He smiled to himself. It was indeed so useful to have multiple copies of one's body. Surrogate hosts was perhaps one of the greatest of his many, many abilities.
Sneaking forward, careful to remain unseen (he didn't want some trigger-happy las-gunner to start blasting at him), he moved to the battle line's left flank and drew a tesseract labyrinth from within his dimensional pocket, and carefully threw it on the battlefield. With another flash, he was gone.
oOo
Brother-Lieutenant Redelu Macktus blinked as he took sight of his surroundings. He could have swore he was underground but a moment ago. Around him, his brothers, clad in gray power armor, looked equally confused.
It had been just moments ago that they were on Penalia, providing a garrison force for that outer world. The smoky, dark sky, tinged with hints of yellow and orange looked nothing like the brilliant blue above them, and none of the flora, buildings, or soldiers in sight were like anything he remembered from that accused rock.
They had gone underground, investigating some sort of strange disturbance the locals had informed them about. Macktus remembered his squad moving through carved out tunnels the human miners had dug, bolters at the ready. He remembered coming up on strange, underground architecture carved from the smoothest, blackest stone he had ever seen in his life. Flickers of green energy moved through the stone and deeper into the bizarre, alien underground city.
The Marine squad had moved forward, he remembered. Then… Then… Then…
Nothing. Macktus cursed under his breath. He couldn't remember what happened after that. Why not? It was frustrating.
"Brother-Lieutenant," called one of his men, snapping him out of his frustrated thoughts. "What are your orders?" Macktus glanced around him.
In front of him, the din of battle greeted his enhanced ears. He saw wave after wave of disgusting, corrupted alien creatures launching themselves at human soldiers. Looking closer, he picked out the Imperial aquila on the resplendent uniforms of the soldiers in blue. The ones in gray-blue armor did not wear Imperial markings, but they were fighting side-by-side with the Auxilia. The soldiers of a lost colony, then.
Lieutenant Macktus made his decision. The Imperium and humanity was under threat by terrible xenos, and they had their duty. He whirled around to face his brothers.
"Forward! We have been transported here through unknown means, but our duty remains the same! The Imperium must be safeguarded! Attack!" he cried as his brothers moved into formation, bolters at the ready. What followed was a battle cry not heard in ten thousand years. "For Perturabo and the Emperor! Iron within, iron without!"
oOo
Central Egypt
Captain Reibaum shook his head desperately, seeking to clear his strange dizziness. His mount, somehow still beneath him, whinnied and bucked and clawed at the ground with its sharp talons, confused and disoriented. Instinctively, Riebaum reached down to pat his mount's neck, seeking to soothe the agitated creature.
But the captain himself was agitated. He could hear his own breath, panting and heavy, reverberating muffled through his gas mask. Looking up and around, he saw his company around him, each calming their mounts or shaking their heads, dazed. Each was on or near their mount: genetically engineered beasts of gray, white, and brown with four talon-tipped legs. Their snouts were covered with gas masks, and saddles adorned their backs.
The troopers themselves each held explosive lances in their hands, with sabres by their sides and las carbines on their backs. The heavy gray trench coats and skull-like gas masks of Krieg were stained by the sand of the desert they now stood in. Reibaum shook his head. Hadn't they been in the mud flats but a moment ago?
The captain checked his comm bead. Nothing. No signal. He cursed behind his mask. What happened?
They had been sent to pacify Tyru III. The 53rd Siege Army had slowly whittled away the traitors upon the planet… Until Chaos Space Marines arrived. Captain Riebaum and his Death Rider company had been ordered around the army's lines to prepare for a flanking maneuver against the Marines as the tanks pushed forward to the center.
They were preparing their weapons… and… and… nothing. Riebaum cursed once more. What happened? Why were they in the desert? Where were they?
In front of him, stretching over the sands was a line of red-robed Mechanicus skitarii fighting besides a combined group of Stormtroopers, Cadians, and Harakoni. Charging their lines were endless numbers of horrifying corrupt creatures. Reibaum didn't know what they were, but due to their horrific twisted forms and mockery of the human body, he somehow knew them to be of Chaos.
Looking around, Captain Reibaum raised his lance high in the air. His troopers looked over.
"Death Riders, to me!" he cried. "Form up! Form up!" In moments, the entirety of the company was mounted, ready, and clustered around their commander. Lances lowered. Mounts shuffled. The Death Riders remained perfectly still and silent. The only one who needed to speak was Reibaum, and only to give orders. The captain looked around. Beneath them, the fight continued, neither side aware of the Death Riders' existence. Riebaum grinned benath his mask in satisfaction. They were perfectly positioned on the enemy's flank. "Charge!"
oOo
Elamavor Rynesea looked around from behind her tall, blue crested helmet. Around her, her own Dire Avengers, accompanied by various Rangers, Dire Avengers, and Swooping Hawks, shook their heads groggily and stumbled unsteadily. Rynesea frowned, sharp features curling behind her helmet. What happened?
The soldiers of Craftworld Iybraesil had been deployed to a world called Fyrithen by the Eldar. The Farseers had warned of a great threat from the Undying arising from that world. She frowned once more, this time in anger. The Undying were the scourge of the stars since the days of the gods and the Yngir. Any threat of them coming once more should be met with great force.
Rynesea remembered being deployed to Fyrithen. She remembered the ship that took her down; remembered the looks of her squad, remembered the dust that wafted through the air of the dead and abandoned world.
They had moved silently, as only Eldar could, over the planet's surface, waiting and watching for any sign of the Undying. Weapons were held at the ready. Aspect armor was stained by dust.
Eventually, they got a reading on their mission's location. One of the underground cities of the Undying had its entrance exposed over the ravages of time. Rynesea and her squad had entered cautiously. Even the silent footfalls of the Eldar seemed to echo thunderously through the tomb of the Undying. Architecture of solid black stone, crackling with pale green energy, stretched into infinity as the soldiers of Iybraesil descended ever-deeper into the silence of the dead city.
Rynesea remembered trekking ever-deeper into the Undying city. She remembered the Rangers peeling off and scouting ahead, wary of any threats. She remembered how the architecture crackled with its terrible green light and how her soldiers clutched their weapons tightly around her. She remembered coming to a central dias, she remembered her Rangers warning her that an Undying, apparently a single one, was awake… then… nothing. Nothing. Ryesea scoffed in frustration. Nothing! What was this? What happened?
They seemed to be in some sort of jungle now. The lush greenery and vibrant vegetation was such a far cry from the dead world Rynesea thought she was on it was disconcerting. What happened? Where were they? She did not know, and her advanced senses could not pick anything out.
Hefting her Avenger Shuriken Catapult, Rynesea motioned for the warriors around her to form up. They did so with the swiftness and grace only Eldar could, quickly moving into position, ready for any threats. In the distance, the zip, boom, and whine of several different types of gunfire reached Rynesea's pointed ears. Frowning once more, this time in more suspicious curiosity than anger, she motioned her warriors forward.
Brushing vines away from her face, she reached a clearing. The Rangers slipped ahead as Rynesea motioned for the rest of her warriors to stop.
In front of them were Mon-keigh. Most wore the golden eagles of the Mon-keigh King atop a drab olive green. However, there seemed to be a second group of Mon-keigh next to them, wearing strange blue-gray armor the likes of which Rynesea had never seen before. The Eldar commander shook her head. The Mon-keigh were so very strange.
But, regardless of the strange design choices of primitives, Rynesea could easily see what they were fighting was of far more consequence. Hordes upon hordes of monsters, twisted and corrupted, charged the Mon-keigh lines as they desperately fought back with their puny weapons. Rynesea frowned. This reeked of the Warp and the Great Enemy.
Looking around, raising her fist to the sky, she shouted the battle cry of Iybraesil and charged, the warriors of the Craftworld following her into battle. Victory or death, in the name of the Craftworld and Khaine!
oOo
The incessant zip of mass accelerated fire had died down as soldier after soldier was blasted or ripped apart by the terrible creatures in front of them. The Turian line was broken and gone. What few Hierarchy soldiers remained fought desperately with anything they could get their hands on, and occasionally their hands themselves.
Garrus Vakarian was on his last few thermal clips. Even though the ground was coated with slain Turian soldiers, there were no more thermal clips around. The dead had used up all of theirs in a last-ditch attempt at survival or the protection of the high command. Some had a few left upon their bodies, but the risk of running to them was not work one or two heat sinks.
Sighting down his rifle, Garrus shot down another Brute charging the line. His hands moved on autopilot, snapping the next thermal clip into place. A blue blur of energy shot across the battlefield. A group of Husks exploded, concussive shockwaves of biotic power rolling outward. Even in his exhausted and battle-weary state, Garrus still managed a smile as he saw Camivia's power in action.
He loved her; loved her power, loved the fact that she was a biotic.
The thoughts of Camivia disappeared as he sighted down his rifle once more. The world around him seemed to become a blur of motions and battle.
Garrus fired. A Marauder fell back with a screech and a splash of corrupted blue blood. He reloaded. A biotic singularity streaked across the battlefield. Skitarii thrashed and screamed. Automatic fire blasted away a press of Husks. A Turian soldier died screaming as she was bitten in two by a skitarii. Garrus fired. A skitarii died. He reloaded. He barely noticed the pools of blood lapping at his feet. Blue, red, green, and black stained his armor. Focus. Maintain focus. Another shot. Another dead Brute. A biotic warp shredded a skitarii. A series of almighty booms sounded throughout the battlefield. Another Turian infantryman died, slashed by a skitarii's claws. Husks mobbed a third; she blew her omni-tool and every grenade on her body. The battlefield exploded with fire. Husks thrashed, burning alive. Cinders. Arterial jets. Blood. Pus. Death. Focus. Focus.
Another breath in, another breath out. Squeeze the trigger. Another death. Pull out a thermal clip. Insert. Sight. Fire. Death. Blood. No time. No relent. A Banshee screamed and tore apart two infantrymen with its biotics. Camivia responded in kind. Garrus fired. Every weapon on the line turned. The Banshee turned to violet and black-blooded pulp. No mercy. No respite. Exhale. Return. Reload. Sight. Fire. Death. Another mark down. Another singularity. Fire. The skitarii rushed the line. Black cloaks flapped with the impetuous of their charge. The last few infantrymen in front of Garrus were torn apart. His mind did not register this. Breathe in, breathe out. Sight. Fire. One dropped. Reload.
There were no thermal clips left.
The skitarii came on, screaming at the top of its lungs. Garrus fell backwards, scrambling, trying to get away. His gauntlets and legs were stained with blood as he inched backwards on his bottom. His sniper rifle, his loyal, dependable weapon, fell from his grasp, useless. Distantly, he heard Camivia's desperate, heart-rending shout.
"Garrus!"
She was too far away. Neither he nor Protocus had any ammunition left. The soldiers around them were dead, dying, or had their own struggles. The skitarii came on.
Somewhere, Garrus knew his face was an expression of terror: eyes wide, mandibles slack and splayed open. Puddles of blood splashed beneath him as he tried desperately to move away to no avail. The skitarii was too fast. Distantly, Garrus knew he was going to die. His only thoughts at that fact was he was sad he would not see Solana again, and he would not get his happy ending with Camivia.
The skitarii's claws came down.
Garrus winced as they were blocked with a sharp clang by a sword of shining silver. The skitarii reared back, angry at its prey being denied. Garrus simply watched, confused at his salvation and utterly mesmerized as the sword spun, throwing the skitarii's claws back. With flawless elegance, it lunged forward, blade shining in the sun, neatly impaling the monstrous creature directly through its throat. The skitarii roared in pain, thrashing. The sword cut horizontally, and black blood jetted through the air as the weapon slashed through the beast's throat. The repeated blam, blam, blam of bolter fire sounded through the air, accompanied by a strange, loud whine Garrus had never heard before. The Turian sniper looked up.
Standing above him, brilliant blade coated with black blood, armor shining in the glory of Palaven's sun, was a Space Marine. He wore the most intricate armor Garrus had seen (even counting Chapter Master Tulioc of the Hawk Lords). Painted green, adorned with a white winged sword and golden filigree, the armor was such a work of art it left Garrus momentarily stunned. Strangely, upon the man's chest was not the typical golden winged skull of the Space Marines, but rather a green hooded figure, blade pointed down, sprouting wings of white from its back. The crimson lenses of a green helmet, adorned with massive rust-red wings sprouting from the back, stared down at the gaping Turian. A crown of golden laurel leaves was gilded upon the helmet's side, and a snarling lion's head of gold adorned the helmet's forehead.
Around the figure were even more Marines, all wearing heavy, hunch-backed Terminator armor of bone white. Garrus gawked, astounded and confused over how he, Camivia, and the rest of the Turian line had not noticed two full squads of Marine Terminators advancing on their position.
Along with the Terminators were two more figures. One wore green armor beneath a white hooded robe. A mace, topped with the same strange green-hooded angel was his weapon, and it flew down to smash in a skitarii's head. Pulling back the weapon, he cleaned its head and stared with open hatred at the Turians who stared at the newcomers in shock.
The second, strangely enough, wore armor of blue beneath a white hooded robe. His shoulder pauldron still displayed the same winged sword upon a background of green, so the strange color must have been some unknown Marine custom. What seemed to be a metal gas mask covered his lower face, and as he turned to face Garrus, the Turian could see one of his eyes had been replaced by a bulky and protruding augmetic. Garrus shivered under the man's one-eyed gaze. His skin crawled for some reason. The look was disconcerting, as if the man was peering into his very soul, reading each and every one of his memories in turn.
"My lord, we have commenced pacification," came the deep and gravelly voice of one of the Terminators. This one had much more ornate armor than his fellows, and instead of a helmet, his face was bare and framed by a white hood.
"Excellent, Grand Master Belial," replied the Marine who had saved Garrus, turning away from the Turian on the ground to face the Terminators. For the first time, Garrus noticed the name on painted on the Marine's shoulder pauldron, repeated on a huge banner being hefted by one of the Terminators:
Azrael
"Have Grand Master Sammael and the Ravenwing escort the engines of Astraman, and deploy Tenth Company to sector 631," continued Azrael crisply, unaware or uncaring of the shocked Turian that still laid at his feet. "In addition, I want the rest of the Deathwing ready and waiting to-"
"They come," interrupted the voice of the blue-armored Marine. Azrael and the Terminators whirled around. Garrus managed to scramble to his feet and retrieve his weapon. Around him, the Hierarchy soldiers moved through the massive, nearly monolithic forms of the Marines and into position. Camivia ran up to Garrus, and though both of them wanted to hug and kiss, glad they were safe, they did not dare beneath the gaze of the unknown Space Marines.
"Never any time for fun," sighed Azrael, spinning his sword. The Terminators moved into position. "You would think the servant of insanity and bloodlust would get it through their heads charging a Marine position head-on is perhaps not the greatest of ideas, but you would be wrong," he drawled. One of the Turians looked over at the Marine commander strangely. Had he just made a joke?
As the skitarii charged once again, the Marines stepped forward and opened fire. Bolter shells and strange shots of glowing white-blue energy flew into the enemy ranks. Garrus ran his hand over his rifle, brushing off what gore he could. Thankfully, it was still in working order. Hustling over to a dead Turian body, he rifled through the corpse's pouches for heat sinks. Finding a few, he inserted one and took aim.
The fight was in full swing now. The Marines fought as only the genetically engineered super-soldiers of the Imperium could, holding their ground and smashing anything that dared come their way. The Terminators stood as unmovable rocks, holding with terrible determination even as the enemy hordes clawed and slashed through them. Their crackling power fists or shining swords slaughtered anything foolish enough to get in close range while their bolters shredded anything from afar.
Azrael fought magnificently. He was utterly breathtaking. Any claw or tooth that came towards him was turned away with his flashing sword, their wielders then suddenly finding themselves minus digits, limbs, and heads. Azrael was a swordsman beyond compare, a spinning whirlwind of green armor and flashing blades.
A strange pressure pounded through Garrus's head, and the stink of ozone wafted through the battlefield. The Marine in blue unleashed a bolt of Warp lightning. It jumped from monster to monster, frying them all as their bodies writhed in agony. Garrus's eyes widened. Ah. A psyker, then. He remembered fighting through the Collector Base with Alpha Primus. It seemed there were more Marine psykers than Cawl's bodyguard.
A series of roaring howls rent the air. However, these were not the terrible animal chitters of the skitarii, but rather mighty, full-throated human roars. Garrus looked to his right, confused. Azrael whirled and spun, decapitating another skitarii, and did the same, his magnificent helmet tilting in bewilderment.
To the right, another group of Marines charged into an enemy flank. These, too, were Terminators, though they did not bear the bone-white or deep green of the Marines standing beside Garrus. Instead, their armor was a strange gray blue, shining dully like winter ice. Pelts, necklaces of fangs, claws, and other trophies adorned their armor like pagan hunters of old.
Their helmets were off, displaying scarred and ragged faces adorned with mounds of messy hair and beards. Each one howled as they charged, their heavy Terminator armor not slowing them down for a second as they smashed through the enemy line like a bowling ball through pins.
They were led by an utter behemoth of a man, bedecked in a huge set of gray Terminator armor. The pelt of some massive, furry beast adorned his broad back, and the carved and snarling head of a wolf, fangs bared, rose over the hood of his hunch-backed armor. Runic inscriptions, designs of skulls of various creatures, and more pelts littered his armor. Much like his surrounding warriors, his helmet was missing. He was old, Garrus could tell that much, with a weathered face, wild gray hair, and a heavy beard.
In his hands was a huge, double-headed axe. Instead of the typical blue electricity that coursed down most Imperial power weapons, this one seemed to be imbued with a malevolent red glow. The man swung the axe as if it weighed nothing, crushing a Brute cleanly through with as much effort as it would take Garrus to shoot it.
Around Garrus, the battle seemed to ebb as the full power of the Marines smashed the last iotas of skitarii resistance. Nearby, Azrael stepped forward towards the blue-gray Marines, only for their leader to turn in surprise and stare.
"By all the frozen hells of Fenris, they sent you here, too?" he demanded. Around him, the other warriors he commanded clustered closer, readying their weapons for a fight. The green and white-clad Marines responded in kind, backing up Azrael as he strode forward.
"I should have known that the High Lords would have been idiotic enough to send you here," he sighed. "Very well, Lord Grimnar," he said with a mocking bow, "It is so very good to have the Rout by our side once more." The man in gray, apparently named Grimnar, gave a huge, belly-shaking barrel laugh.
"Indeed, Supreme Grand Master Azrael," he said with a mocking bow of his own. "The fangs of the Lion shall support the Wolves, it seems." Garrus could see the Supreme Grand Master's eye roll even behind his helmet.
"Ah, yes, the Great Wolf of the Space Wolves leading the Wolves of the Wolf Guard into battle. Wonderful imagination you lot have," snarked Azrael. "I'm assuming you've never heard of a thesaurus?" Grimnar and the rest of his Wolves bristled. Nearby, one of the Turian soldiers desperately covered his mouth to prevent himself from laughing, producing only a small squeak. Both groups of Marines turned to face him, and he fell silent, utterly terrified. The rest of the Turians stood silently watching the spectacle, both scared and amused.
Apparently satisfied that the alien was sufficiently cowed, Azrael and Grimnar turned to each other once more.
"We don't need your fancy-pants barbs here, Azrael," replied Grimnar. "The Wolves of Fenris will carry this world to victory and liberation, ya clean-licking cat." The Wolves laughed. Azrael rolled his eyes again. Garrus was amazed at how much expression the man could convery in full armor.
"No, I think not," he said succinctly. "Unless, of course, your so-called 'sharp' wolf eyes missed the sight of the Invincible Reason hanging above this planet? Nay; we are in charge, and the Consecrators, our successor, shall soon arrive to back us up instead of your mindless berserking chargers."
"Did you forget, Supreme Grand Master," the words were invested with icy scorn, "That I have seniority?"
"Did you forget, Great Wolf, that I don't care?" replied Azrael. Garrus stuffed his fist in his mouth to prevent him from laughing, but it did little good. Azrael tilted his head; showing the noise made it to his ears, but did not turn around. Instead, he crossed his arms and stared at Grimnar. "Your companies will support the Knights, the engines, and fight beside the Deathwing and Ravenwing."
"Absolutely not, pup," snorted Grimnar.
"Why, you busy washing your beard or something?" deadpanned Azrael. The Turians tried, and failed, not to snicker. Grimnar actually looked slightly offended over that one.
"You don't even know anything about this world. Astraman is fighting Tempestor, and it's our duty to liberate what we can and support the engines," snarled the Great Wolf.
"Well, I-"
"A-hrm." Garrus cleared his throat mildly, stepping next to Azrael and Grimnar. Their bodyguards watched him in bemusement like he was some sort of curious animal. Behind, Camivia and Protocus looked at him like he was out of his mind. "If I may-"
"You may not, xeno," growled one of the Wolf Guard, stepping forward threateningly.
"Let him speak," came a whispery, gravelly voice. Garrus turned. Strangely enough, it was the blue-armored psyker that was supporting him. The Wolf Guard turned on Garrus's savior.
"And what do you know, witch?" he growled. "Are you-"
"Peace," Grimnar held up a gauntleted hand, and the argument fell silent. He turned to Garrus and tilted his head, as if saying let's see where this is going. Realizing the Marines were waiting for him to speak, Garrus hurriedly continued.
"I haven't been updated on the current situation involving any Knights or engines," he began, "And I also was not informed of your arrival, though it was very… uh… helpful and I thank you for it." Internally, he winced. Not his most eloquent speech. The Marines were still watching him as if he was some vaguely interesting zoo animal. "What I do know is that you coming to this spot in particular is actually rather fortunate for the overall strategic reconquest of the planet." Bringing up a map on his omni-tool, he held it up so the Marines could see. "We are here," he stated, pointing with a two-fingered hand at their present location. "With the arrival of your Marines and thus the fact that Primarch Fedorian is safe, additional Turian forces can be brought to bear against the enemy. We can then push up with both groups of your Marines at the head, supported by Turian forces and each other, and smash through any resistance, ultimately breaking through this gorge and retaking the city and surrounding areas, allowing for a landing and recuperating zone for our allied forces." He glanced over to Grimnar. "Unless, of course, you're too busy washing your beard."
Grimnar and the Wolves looked shocked at his joke. However, it was not them Garrus had to worry about.
Praetor Vakarian, de-facto second-in-command of the Hierarchy and hero of Palaven, tried his very best not to whimper as the Chapter Master suddenly whirled around to regard him. Never, not on Omega where he nearly died, not on the Collector base, not even fighting Reapers had he ever felt such sudden, overwhelming, visceral terror as when he looked into the crimson lenses of Azrael's helmet.
The feeling lasted for but a heartbeat before slowly, nearly imperceptibly, Azrael nodded his head.
"I like this xeno," he announced to no one in particular. "He amuses me." Nearby, both his officers and Grimnar looked at him strangely. Azrael spun, looking at all of the assembled Turians and Terminators. "Very well! Let's get to it! Assemble, and prepare for a push!" His crimson gaze returned to Garrus. "And you, xeno… you're coming with us."
"He is absolutely not!" protested Grimnar's voice. "He's got the heart of a Wolf, even though he might be a bit on the… spiky side…" Grimnar shook his head. "Either way, he's with us!"
Garrus experienced the very odd sensation of being caught between two individuals who, as a general rule, hated him, yet were so impressed with his tenacity they now both wanted him for themselves.
"Nope, he's ours, I saved him, he's coming with us," said Azrael dismissively. He turned back to Garrus and Camivia, who had moved up beside her intended's side. "And you. Other xeno. You're with us. You two are buy one, get one free, I have a feeling. You're with the Dark Angels. Let's go." Garrus and Camivia glanced at each other, bewildered. Everything was going so fast. Behind them, the Turian's heard Grimnar's sigh.
"Fine. You there. Bolter boy." He must have been referring to Protocus. "Grab your weapon and your soldiers, and let's move."
It seemed to be but a second before everyone was in position. Though he had been exhausted moments before, Garrus was reinvigorated by the arrival of the Marines and the fact that they might now win; the fact he might survive.
The Marines assembled in their ranks. In front of them the Reaper and skitarii forces had regrouped and were preparing for another push. Nearby, Camivia gulped down food and water to sustain her biotics. A series of howls filled the air.
"For Russ and the Allfather!" roared Grimnar, raising his axe high. His Wolves roared and cheered around him. The Turians with them couldn't help but join in, swept away by the enthusiasm and wondrous feel of power and combat that came with the Wolves.
Next to Garrus, Azrael drew his blade with a long rasp of metal on scabbard. The Dark Angels, for now Garrus knew their name, readied their weapons with cold, grim, and resolute determination. Azrael took a deep breath and held the sword in a two handed grip in front of his face.
"Repent, for tomorrow you die," he intoned. As one, the Turians and Marines moved forward, once more taking the fight to the enemy.
oOo
Captain Tor Garradon paced aboard the huge stone floor of the Phalanx's bridge. His heavy footfalls echoed through the massive room, reverberating from stone walls and the carved ceiling. Heavy yellow armor, adorned with the clenched black fist of the sons of Rogal Dorn, covered the scarred and powerful body of the captain. His pockmarked visage turned into a thunderous frown.
Around him, the utterly massive, nearly stadium-sized room that was the bridge of the Phalanx seemingly stretched into the void itself. Statues of the ancient heroes of yore lined the walls, their helmets and faces unblinking as they stared down at the mighty battle station's crew or off into the void beyond. The image of Lord Praetorian Rogal Dorn himself was sculpted in Terran marble directly behind Garradon's command station, chainsword in hand, watching his sons and their servants from beyond the grave.
Below the platform on which the captain of the Phalanx paced were thousands upon thousands of stations and cogitator screens. Tech-Priests, robed in the pure crimson of Mars, patrolled between endless isles of servitors, wafting incense and checking to make sure everything was in perfect working order. The servitors controlled the lesser systems of the almighty battle station, with Tech-Priests and chapter brothers overseeing the larger and more important.
"Are we within range of the Olympus, Captain?" came a deep and growly voice from behind Garradon's shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. The captain turned around to come face to face with Vorn Hagan, Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists. A powerful and scarred face, typical of the sons of Dorn, looked out frowning from above heavy yellow armor adorned with golden trim and multitudes of purity seals.
Garradon bowed stiffly, as much as him armor would allow at the arrival of the Chapter Master.
"Not yet, my lord," he replied. Hagan turned towards the massive, nearly building-sized floor to ceiling windows looking out on Earth. His face did not move an inch, remaining a stern frown.
"Very well," said the Chapter Master. He looked back to Garradon, expression still unreadable. "I shall take the rest of the chapter and make our assault on the planet. The Dread Host have their own agenda and orders, and will be deploying to what they call North America to overthrow the Arch Heretek himself. You shall take the Phalanx and defeat the enemy fleet with it. Third Company shall remain here to partake in any necessary boarding actions." Garradon made a fist and hit his left pectoral with his right hand. The dull clang of armor hitting armor reverberated through the air.
"It shall be done as you command, Chapter Master," he replied.
"Excellent," replied Hagan with a curt nod. So saying he turned and walked from the bridge, affixing his helmet to his head as he went.
Garradon turned away from the Chapter Master's departing form, clasping his yellow-armored gauntlets neatly behind his back. Looking out on the huge expanse of the bridge, he allowed himself a satisfied nod.
"All systems are operating to their fullest capacity, Captain," came the droning, metallic voice of the Phalanx's chief Tech-Priest.
"Excellent, Magos," he said, deep voice carrying through the bridge. Turning to the navigational and weapons systems he bellowed down his commands to them. "Increase speed. Ready all weapons systems. We shall smite the traitor's flagship from the void and show them that only one vessel is worthy to rule Terra's skies."
oOo
Aboard the Olympus Mons, the captain paced over the black and twisted floor of the bridge. Frowning, he gazed with dozens of optics through filthy windows and out to the Phalanx and the incoming Imperial Fist fleet. Though they were far outside of Earth's orbit, and thus weapons range, it still struck fear into the Olympus's captain. He shuddered. Fear was not an emotion he was used to feeling; not an emotion he had actually felt in ten thousand years. He was captain of the Olympus Mons, the greatest and most powerful ship to ever sail the void. Nothing could touch it; nothing could touch him.
Except, of course, Rogal Dorn's Dark Age battle station. Damn the Lord Praetorian and his sons to the Warp! Damn them all! Why oh why did they always have to ruin everything?
Turning to the corrupted servitors working at their stations, he snapped out commands, then brought up the Olympus's tactical readout in his mind.
What to do, what to do? The Phalanx, accompanied by the Imperial Fist chapter fleet continued on towards Earth. A new ping of information showed up through the system, marking three utterly massive, gold-plated vessels near the Fists. A moment later, their information showed up. The captain winced. A perfect mach.
The Moiraides of the Dread Host.
All three.
Dammit.
The captain whirled in place, swearing softly in binary, before looking out again at the looming and fast-approaching form of the Phalanx. With a mental command, he brought up a comms link to Lord Hal. The captain stood silently as it rang.
It continued to ring.
It kept ringing.
Nothing. Dammit.
He looked out on the Phalanx once more. Could the Olympus take it? Could it take the Moiraides? Could it take the Fists' chapter fleet? Should he run? Should he stay? What would the unreachable Kelbor-Hal want? An escape craft? A battle to the death for Earth?
Dammit, dammit, dammit!
He had a choice. Run or fight. Run or fight. But what to do? Could he take the Phalanx? Even with the power of the Vaults of Moravec, could any starship take down a moon-sized fortress in space?
Ultimately, the captain knew one fact. If he were to leave, Lord Hal would never forgive him. It mattered not what happened in the stars, for if the Custodians were to deploy, and Lord Hal were to die, the war would be lost and the Dark Mechanicum's cause would be doomed.
Making his decision, the captain of the Olympus Mons turned towards a lesser Tech-Priest.
"Summon the rest of the fleet," he ordered. "Ready all weapons systems, and get me 120% on the reactor. Load the torpedo tubes and prep the main gun. Make certain the voids are operating at full capacity." The Priest nodded as the captain turned to face the cold, uncaring void once more. "Today we go to war."
oOo
"The Olympus is moving, Captain," came the deep baritone of one of the Imperial Fists manning the Phalanx's sensor systems. Captain Garradon, hands still clasped neatly behind his back, turned down to the Marine and gave him a single acknowledging nod.
"Very well," he replied. "It seems the traitors are spoiling for a fight."
"Indeed, my lord," replied another officer with a faint, rumbling chuckle. "And who would we be to not give them one?" There were a few stoic chuckles at this and deep nods. The sons of the Lord Praetorian would not shirk their duty.
"We shall show them the power of the Phalanx soon enough," said Garradon confidently. Turning towards the tactical readout in front of him, Garradon frowned in thought as he regarded the Olympus's position. It seemed the Olympus was moving into position to charge directly towards the Phalanx, minimizing its forward profile. What was more, the other Reaper and Dark Mechanicum vessels stationed around the planet were assembling, coming toward the Olympus like a moth towards flame, moving with all due haste to bring the fight to the loyalists.
Garradon looked back to the Fists's chapter fleet and the waiting Moiraides. If he was in the traitors' position (which he was not, for he was a son of Dorn), he would be trying to prevent any additional reinforcements from reaching the surface of the planet.
That simply wouldn't do. Garradon looked down to the navigational controls stations.
"The traitors seek to destroy our landing forces. Put the Phalanx between them and the fleet. Prepare the torpedoes. We shall blow that wretched hulk from the void." The bridge crew of the Phalanx complied immediately, hustling around to complete their duties. Throughout the station, the alarm for battle stations sounded.
oOo
"The Phalanx is putting itself between us and the loyalist fleet," droned one of the servitors in the Olympus's bridge. The captain frowned behind his heavy black hood. It seemed the so-called Captain Tor Garradon had read his move. The Olympus would be forced to duel the Phalanx to get to the Fists's chapter fleet.
He could, of course, send the other Dark Mechanicum and Reaper vessels around the flank to hit the fleet from the other side, but then they'd have to contend with the Moiraides, and nothing in Hal's armada besides the Olympus could contend with the ancient ships of the Dread Host.
"Is the main gun online?" he asked. Nearby, another Tech-Priest nodded.
"Ready and waiting. We've sacrificed more psykers to add additional firepower." The captain grinned evilly. The main weapon of the Olympus Mons, mounted above the superstructure of the ship, was a void-powered design taken from the Vaults of Moravec. It could chew through nearly anything.
Hopefully the Phalanx would prove no different, but somehow the captain doubted it.
This was not a typical space battle from his galaxy, with starships rushing at each other for a full broadside-to-broadside confrontation. This would not be decided by might or who could reload and fire their weapons faster in an all-out slugfest. Instead, this was more careful, more slow, more long-winded, with precision maneuvering into perfect positions and praying the enemy made a mistake before you did. One wrong move could spell death. A kilometer out of position, a torpedo spread fired a second too soon, a flicker in the power level of the vessel could all mean death. This was indeed a contest of titans, but the Olympus Mons and the Phalanx were far too experienced and valuable to simply rush their enemy head-on.
And so they moved in an intricate dance of thrusters and tiny maneuverings, each hoping they would survive the fight.
oOo
"Olympus Mons at 3-5-7 degrees and closing," reported a servitor to Captain Garradon. The Marine nodded carefully. Turning towards the weapon officer, he raised a hand.
"Torpedo spread at the Olympus from our left-frontal tubes," he ordered. The Marine nodded.
"Yes, Captain. However, I must warn you that the Olympus has turned to minimize its forward profile. Not all of the torpedoes will hit," replied the Marine.
"I know," replied Garradon. "However, in doing so, they have lessened the firepower they can hit us with. We shall try to take down the void shields before it reaches us so we may pound it into submission."
"Yes, my lord," replied the Marine. Pressing a button, he looked back up to Garradon. "Left-frontal tubes loaded. Fire, fire, fire."
oOo
"Torpedoes, torpedoes!" came the automatic warning of a servitor. The captain of the Olympus frowned. What was their game?
"Strengthen frontal voids for their inevitable attack," he ordered. "Do not deviate course. Order in the rest of the fleet for support. Ready our own frontal torpedo tubes and return fire. Save all unnecessary power for the main gun."
"Yes, Captain!" replied the Tech-Priests standing beneath him. The captain drummed his cybernetic fingers on the pedestal beneath him. If they could close, they could fire the main gun. Did the Phalanx know about it? What were they doing?
It was a mind game now as much as a void war. He was a Tech-Priest; he only hoped he came out on top. Either way, he didn't like the uncertainty.
oOo
"Torpedo spread," came the deep monotone of one of the Marines in the Phalanx's bridge. "Only a few; it was their frontal tubes." Garradon nodded.
"They shall not harm us. What of the rest of the display?" he asked the sensor officers even as he looked down at the tactical readout in front of him.
"The rest of the traitor fleet is moving up behind the Olympus," replied a Tech-Priest, fiddling nervously with its mechadendrites.
"Most likely to add their firepower to try and crack out shields," added another Marine. Garradon scoffed with amusement.
"They think they can break the Phalanx? Even if such an unthinkable event were to occur, they would have to contend with the Moiraides. Obviously, as traitors are want to do, they did not think this through," said Garradon, crossing his arms. "Nevertheless…" His officers looked up to him, waiting for instructions. "Nevertheless, divert additional power to the void shields. As our resolute father said, the best offense is a good defense."
oOo
The Olympus shook as the Phalanx's torpedoes hit it. In front of the bridge, the frontal voids flickered but held stoutly. Most of the spread went wide around the minimized vessel's frontal profile, exactly what the captain was hoping for.
The captain himself nodded with a smirk. So, they would close after all. He turned back down to his crew.
"Order the rest of the fleet forward so they may add their firepower to ours," he said. "And ready the main gun."
oOo
"Torpedos impacted with little affect," reported one of the Imperial Fists on the Phalanx's bridge. In front of the bridge, the mighty battle station's void shields repulsed the Olympus's own return torpedoes. Garradon scoffed. The Phalanx would not be harmed by such mere firepower as that. What was the Olympus's game?
The rest of the enemy fleet moved up on the tactical display. Garradon's face shifted into the thunderous frown the sons of Dorn were well-known for. What were they up to? This was a thinking game.
But, still, he was the commander of the Phalanx, the deadliest vessel to sail the void. He would not let his father's proud battle station fall.
"Ready all weapons," he ordered. "Prepare for a fight."
oOo
"My lord, we are within range," came the droning metallic voice of a Tech-Priest. The Olympus's captain nodded.
"Very well. Fire the main gun, and fire all frontal weapons! Order the fleet to engage the Phalanx!"
oOo
A beam of pure malevolent crimson, crackling with the eldritch power of the Warp itself, flew from the barrel of the Olympus's terrifying main gun to impact against the Phalanx's shields. The station itself was too big to rock or move from the massive weapon's impact, but the shields glowed a bright white-violet at the weapon's impact. In the bridge, the crew, Marine, mortal and Tech-Priest alike, blanched.
"Deus Mechanicus, what is that thing?" whispered a Tech-Priest. Garradon's eyes widened a moment before snapping back to another Tech-Priest.
"Shield status?" he roared. The Tech-Priest looked at her equipment, then back up at him.
"It took a greater chunk out of them that we'd like, my lord, but shields are healthy and holding," she replied. Garradon nodded.
"Enemy vessels moving up to support the Olympus," came the monotone warning of another Tech-Priest. Out the huge windows of the bridge, the Phalanx's void shields flashed as macro cannons, torpedoes, Reaper lasers, and lance batteries from the other vessels impacted them. Garradon frowned. They were not in danger yet, but if this continued… well, the Olympus was still dangerous by itself.
"Ready all weapons and return fire," ordered Garradon. "Smash the Olympus's support vessels and take them from the void and fight while we whittle down and destroy that accursed hulk itself."
"Yes, my lord!" came the reply from the crew.
Along Gothic-spiraled buttresses and ornate filigreed outcroppings of the Phalanx, macro cannons and lance batteries turned menacingly in place. Golden gilding shone in the light of Sol. Lances hummed with power. Clenched fists shone menacingly.
Far below, in the bowels of the vessel, countless servitors and emancipated humans loaded building-sized torpedoes and Baneblade-length macro cannon shells into breaches. Imperial officers barked orders.
The Phalanx exploded with fire.
oOo
"My lord, void shields are quickly depleting," said a Tech-Priest desperately. The captain of the Olympus cursed as another series of lance batteries smashed into his ship. Reaper after Reaper detonated, smashed by the power of the Phalanx's guns. The ships of the Dark Mechanicum fared slightly better with their larger sizes, larger guns, more powerful engines, and void shields, but they too were no match for Rogal Dorn's almighty battle fortress.
"Fire the main gun!" In response to the captain's orders, the Olympus's main gun fired again. The Phalanx's shields flickered. The captain himself felt his own responding flicker of hope, a hope that was quickly dashed as a few nearby Dark Mechanicum ships, too close to each other to maneuver, were caught in the same spread of torpedoes and detonated in silent balls of fire.
Dammit.
oOo
"My lord, the shields of the Olympus Mons are falling fast. Our shields themselves are also falling, but we estimate we shall weather the storm as we always have," came Captain Garradon's requested report. The Imperial Fist nodded.
"Very well. Focus fire, and blow the Olympus from the void."
oOo
Below and to the side of the mighty battle taking place between the loyalist and traitor vessels, Shield-Captain Thrax of the Dread Host looked out the bridge windows of the lead Moiraides. He smiled as the Olympus Mons crumbled beneath the Phalanx's overwhelming firepower.
The Arch Heretek's flagship was gone. The man himself was soon to follow.
oOo
Codex:
The Phalanx:
The Phalanx is the massive starship that serves as the mobile fortress monastery of the Imperial Fists. It was constructed long ago by unknown human hands during the Dark Age of Technology, and discovered by Rogal Dorn near his home planet Inwit near the beginning of the Great Crusade.
The size of a planetoid of small moon, the Phalanx is essentially a mobile, pre-Imperial battle station that serves as both the Imperial Fist's fortress monastery, chapter homeworld, and foremost warship. In form and scale, it is a mighty cathedral of war that dwarfs the largest of battle barges and battleships and wields the firepower of a formidable fleet.
oOo
I hope you all liked the chapter. My two clarifications and notes are as follows:
1. Some of you might be chomping at the bit to say the Marines would never get along with Garrus. What a lot of people forget is that Azrael is really, really, snarky. He's portrayed among the fandom and in TTS as super grim and a "REPENT HERETIC"-type. What they forget is Azrael is actually a really calm and collected commander, is usually the one reigning in Asmodia and Belial, and is actually pretty funny when he wants to be.
Thus, I would think Azreal has suddenly found someone (even though that someone is a xeno) that really gets his sense of humor, which none of the other Marines do. Also, the getting-along-with aliens was sanctioned by the High Lords, and the Dark Angels totally definitely-most certainly do NOT have a race of tiny xenos that serve on the Rock that help them with all their gear, which is two more points in favor of Azreal liking Garrus.
Lastly, it's a fun and funny scene, so I like it and it's staying. Basically:
Azrael: "I hate xenos."
Azrael: gets a xeno
Azrael: "If anything happens to this xeno, I will kill you all and then myself."
Also, Grimnar respects Garrus's balls for speaking up to Marines like he did, and will want Garrus with him simply to piss off with the Dark Angels.
2. The space battle. I have gotten several reviews asking ofr a slower-paced space battle. I've never actually written that before, so I was trying out a new style. That, combined with trying to make sure everything is fair and accurate made for a bit of tricky writing, so you guys will have to tell me how well that scene turned out. I welcome your reviews.
Ultimately, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and stay tuned for the final final battle chapter and the aftermath to come. As always, I apprecaite any comments, criticsms, questions, concerns, and reviews.