Chapter-8

Sky-high

11,000m above the City of Kvalna

June 3rd, 1995

It was just after 2 in the morning as United Airlines Flight 7734 was in the final stages of its long journey from Vostokvakia Y.A Gagarin to Dulles International Airport. It was a long-haul voyage; because Dao airspace was strictly off-limits, the flight had to be made westward, over the Arctic, with a refueling stopover in Anchorage, Alaska, instead of simply flying east. Soon they would begin making their descent for landing. Seated in the pilot's seat was Captain John Lovell. To his right was seated First Officer Lenny Wilson. Just behind them, the chair of their Flight Engineer, Mike Ronalds, was empty; Min had decided to step out momentarily and take a final bathroom break before landing.

"I wonder what's taking him so long," muttered Lenny, "c'mon, dinner wasn't that bad!"

"I've had better," shrugged John, "back when I first joined, they actually used to put some thought and care into what they served; you know, actually took pride in their work. This was when we still had the onboard smoking lounges too. Now, it's all just cutting corners."

John chuckled as Lenny teased their absent flight engineer Mike. The kid had a point though - the inflight meals had really gone downhill over the years. He fondly recalled his early piloting days, when airlines took pride in pampering their passengers. Ah well, times changed. At least the sights from up here never got old.

Lenny glanced at his watch. "What's taking Mike so long in the head? We'll be starting descent soon."

"Give him a break, the coffee's awful today," John said. "Maybe he's dealing with the aftermath."

"Ugh, too much information Captain!" Lenny laughed.

John grinned and sipped his tea. The old ways were still best in the air.

Just then the bathroom door banged open, and Mike rushed in, frantically buttoning his uniform.

"Sorry gents, got caught up reading the safety cards," Mike said breathlessly as he plopped into his seat.

"Those are real page-turners," John deadpanned.

Mike rolled his eyes and reached for the intercom. "Galley, we gonna need some Alka-Seltzer up here stat for these comedians!"

Lenny snorted as John shook his head in amusement. Good old Mike, always playing the straight man. He was grateful for the moment of levity before the tense landing ahead.

Thomas Paine settled into his first-class seat, exhausted but satisfied after the momentous events in Vostokvakia. The first joint Concordia-Vostokvakian astronaut exchange - a small step perhaps, but an important milestone toward possible future cooperation in space.

As the stewardess came by with coffee and tea service, Paine smiled at the lighthearted banter he overheard from the cockpit. It seemed even the flight crew were in good spirits after the successful mission.

Of course, challenges remained. The Vostokvakians drove a hard bargain, wary of giving too much away even in joint ventures. But Paine felt progress had been made, seeds of trust planted on both sides. The stars called to all mankind equally, regardless of earthly divisions.

The aircraft hit some mild turbulence, jostling Paine from his thoughts. He glanced out the window into the endless night sky beyond. Somewhere out there, the next giant leap awaited them all.

With care, wisdom and good faith, humanity might just reach it together, rather than alone. Paine sipped his coffee, dreaming of stepping onto another world hand in hand with Vostokvakian cosmonauts. If today's small steps could someday make that a reality, it was progress enough for now.

Flight Lieutenant Karla Braun.

Somewhere near Rourke Continent?

Karla frowned as her Valkyrie's systems glitched again - something was scrambling their electronics after re-entry. She'd ended up well off course from her squadron, with only her co-pilot Soren left aboard. At least she could still fly in the atmosphere, though worse was the apparent communications blackout with the fleet.

"This is Mikael, do you copy Braun?" her squadron leader's voice suddenly crackled through, equally off-track it seemed. She quickly confirmed her situation.

"Some kind of localized warp anomaly during descent perhaps?" Karla suggested. But the cause was less pressing than their mission - seek and destroy enemy aircraft with what forces they had left.

Soren spoke up from the cockpit behind her. "Large contact spotted, bearing one-zero-zero clicks." Karla checked her auspex, marking the faint trace.

"I see it - moving to intercept." At least her primary weapons still worked, she noted with satisfaction.

"Go get them lieutenant," Mikael said. "No matter what foul xenos trickery brought us here, the Emperor's justice cannot be denied."

Karla grinned fiercely under her respirator mask. "With pleasure sir. Consider them ashes."

She kicked the engines to full throttle, relishing the coming hunt. An enemy was an enemy, wherever they met. And her Valkyrie still had fangs.

"Ready lascannons and acquire target lock," she told Soren. "Let's remind these savages why they should fear the sky."

The blips converged rapidly on her display. Karla's eyes narrowed, focusing in the darkness. "Come into my sights, heretic..." she muttered. "Come and die."

VVS Air Base at Vyazma,

Karlovey Matusz, Vostokvakian SFSR, SKRV.

2AM

1995.

Chaos reigned at Vyazma airbase as alarms blared. Alien invaders were attacking cities across Vostokvakia, slaughtering civilians in the streets. Concordia was also under assault by the mysterious enemy, confirming the extraterrestrial threat. And now radar showed another unidentified contact inbound towards Vyazma.

Lt. Anya Zhalkova, 16th Air Army, 28th Fighter Aviation Regiment, 314th Fighter Squadron., jogged out onto the tarmac. Up ahead, the ground crew were already warming up her MiG-29G or as she affectionately called it "The Flying Girlfriend." She took a moment to adjust her helmet, set her breather mask in the "open" position for take-off, and then fastened his seatbelts. She also took a moment to flex the wing flaps, rudder, intake ramps, and afterburner nozzles. Everything checked out. She motioned for the ground crew, and they stood back. The open canopy was pulled down and closed.

Within moments, the Mikoyan MiG-29 had taxied out of its position, accelerated to take-off, and was in the air, rapidly climbing. Within minutes, she was joined by her fellow pilots, Lieutenants Vronska and Bobrova.

"This is Gadyvka-5, standing by, over," spoke Zhalkova.

Several hundred kilometers away, there was a lonely AWACS aircraft patrolling the Sea of Satsuma. An old Tupolev Tu-114 that was due to be placed out of service in the favour of the newer and more modern Beriev A-50 codenamed "Mainstay" by the OFN, this old plane had the critical job of detecting pesky Connie Spy planes and Submarine launched nuclear missiles.

"Gadyvka Flight, this is Sokol" the voice on the radio. "Flight, we have clear conformation, I repeat. Clear conformation that bogey is hostile. We have unidentified signal at 41.826100 / 133.826769, heading on a bearing 128 degrees, at approximately 1,100 km/h. Altitude: difficult to determine. Origin: unknown. Believed to be an attack craft of sorts in connection with the ongoing attacks on Beijing and the Gregureyon DMZ."

"Tak tochno," replied Anya, "affirmative. Moving to intercept unidentified Bogey. Over."

"We will keep you notified of its position," replied Sokol, "PS note: signal has now altered course, bearing 94 degrees. Current heading..."

Eastern Coastline of Rorke Continent(?),

Newly discovered Planet Nova Arcadia, Nova Arcadia System.

Karla stared at the large aerocraft as she approached it. For some reason it oddly hadn't noticed them, not that she minded. Sometimes it was better to have an easy target. Soren peeked from his seat, "Damn, that thing's ugly and beautiful at the same time, and who in their right mind put two propellers on 4 points. These idiots are savages."

Karla snickered from her seat. It was true. The aircraft was beautiful and ugly at the same time. Not only was it long and lumbering. But its engines had the loudest sound she had ever heard. It sounded like a swarm of knacker jackers, mutated hornets native to her homeworld. And what was the purpose of that large rotating dish? It was bigger than most dishes the Imperium used. Also, the big red star symbol that it had on its tail showed up very clearly on auspex despite how dark it was outside did not match any of the briefings they had been given beforehand. It felt almost bad to destroy this thing, it looked harmless. But orders were orders, and she was following them. She began to power up the twin frontal laser cannons of the Valkyrie.

Karla's lascannon speared the lumbering prop plane, bisecting it instantly in a blaze of light. "Target destroyed," Soren confirmed needlessly. Oddly primitive for a rebel craft, but the Imperium would not falter.

"Next target acquired," Soren added, marking a new blip on auspex. "Large aircraft, 11 clicks rear, south at altitude."

Karla adjusted course, surprised their attack hadn't raised a response. Were these backward savages truly so oblivious? She wouldn't complain about easier prey.

"They'll learn to fear the Emperor's wrath soon enough," she told Soren, accelerating to attack speed. The Valkyrie was crippled without its rockets, but still a force to be reckoned with in atmosphere.

"Sokol is down. I repeat: Sokol is down!"

"Blyat'," Bobrova cursed loudly over the radio waves.

"Hostility confirmed officially then," replied Zhalkova. Well, she thought, I suppose the Tu-126s are now officially retired from service for good. And they sure as hell went out of service in spectacular fashion, with a bang…

"Where is target currently ground control?" asked Vronska.

" Gadyvka Flight this is ground control," the radio buzzed loudly, "ground radar is tracking hostile target heading away from Sokol's last reported position, bearing 175 degrees west. Note: on current trajectory, it appears to be leaving for international airspace to the Xianjong Region in Dao."

"Permission to pursue," Anya asked though there was a bit of tension in her voice.

"You kidding me?" Bobrova complained, "it's the goddamn Maoists problem now!"

"Permission granted, Flight," said the radio, in spite of Bobrova's complaining. There was a brief pause of utter silence in which the only sound was the rumble of turbofans. "New orders from high command: any and all enemy aircraft are to be intercepted - captured if possible, destroyed if necessary. Please try to herd the target back into our airspace, so that ground defenses may disable it. We are contacting PLAAF right now to coordinate."

"Tak tochno," she replied, "well, you heard them ladies. vput!"

"So we're inviting Maoists to the party?" grunted Bobrova in a disappointed tone before she applied thrust.

Zhalkova pushed her left hand forward on the throttles, gunning the twin Klimov RD-33 jet engines forward at full afterburner, the flight racing to catch up with their target.

Eric von Shrakenberg.

1st Draka Airborne Regiment.

D Company.

Currently holding a village.

Eric rubbed his eyes as he looked back to Keurig, the Krieg commissar's face unreadable beneath his rebreather.

"You want me to retake the outer defenses?"

"That is correct" Keurig's filtered voice said, changed due to the gasmasks vocorder.

"How?"

We're just 150 men-145 no, plus you and the 3 remaining survivors from A company. Our Heavy equipment and two of the Valkyries needed to transport them are stuck in a canyon, and won't arrive in time to help us, so please, Commissar. Explain to me. How are we going to defend an abandoned village that the bigwigs up in command seem to think has some form of strategic value? And especially after we lost the outer barricades to local forces."

"Use that big intelligent brain of yours, Shrakenberg." Keurig looked down at his data slate.

"Oh for crying out loud you vat grown..."

"Language!" Keurig reprimanded."

"Begging the Commissar's thrice-damned pardon," Eric bit out through gritted teeth. "But taking objectives with no armor, air support or even proper intel seems a bit pukka, don't you think?"

"Improvise," Keurig intoned blandly.

Eric raked frustrated hands through his hair. "Right, yes, improvise. Let me think...ah! I know, we'll throw our socks at the enemy! No, wait - paper aeroplanes! That ought to do the trick."

"Sarcasm ill befits leadership."

"And what do you call sending men to die pointlessly, eh?" Eric glared defiantly.

Keurig was unfazed. "Every soldier knows their duty - to obey without question. As for tactics, your record suggests a certain...creative approach. Or have years of comfort dulled those wits?"

Eric bristled but held his tongue. As futile as this seemed, arguing further would solve nothing. He paced the ruined floor in thought.

"Alright, you want improvisation? I have an idea. But we'll need every able body for it to work, and all their wits about them. Can you handle that, Commissar?"

"This one lives only to serve the Emperor's will," Keurig droned.

Eric suppressed a snort. "Right. Then get the men mustered. We move at dusk."

He turned on his heel and strode out, mind racing. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and victory against all reason was this commissar's maddening aim. Well then, by the Throne - Eric would deliver the impossible, or die in the attempt.

Before Eric could put together a decent plan, a Guardsman burst in screaming bloody murder.

"Sir! Sir! Enemy forces are advancing!"

Keurig sprang up from the chair "What?

Minutes Prior.

Private Simoni Aleksidze.

414th Motor Rifle Division.
Gruzinsk SSR.

Polazuri.

Union of Vostokvakian Republics.

June 3rd, 1995.

Day-2 of WW3

Simoni mentally prepared himself. He'd been chosen to be part of one of the new "assault group's" He'd already swapped his AKMS and most of it's magazines with a Spetsnaz officer. The grateful officer had given him her newer AK-74 and mags.

They were now moving upwards now, behind a T-55AM tank that was going to support them. He was wearing his ushanka and his SSh-68 steel helmet above it.

Adrenaline surged through Simoni as he scrambled alongside his comrades, following the lumbering T-55 into the urban sprawl. Gunfire echoed ahead, interspersed with sporadic explosions - the advance patrol had engaged the enemy and were putting up a fight. A red ribbon now adorned his Afganka-the Medal for Courage.

He checked his unfamiliar AK-74 yet again, muscle memory slowly overriding initial clumsiness. The Spetsnaz officer's gift had doubtless saved his life more than once already in this hellish day.

A hand signal rippled down the line - they were closing on the first buildings. Simoni pulled his telnyashka neck scarf higher, steeling himself. This would be his first taste of city combat, but he wouldn't freeze. Goga and the others were depending on him to fight hard as the professionals around him.

The tank's main gun boomed, pulverizing a sniper nest. In the ensuing dust and tumult the assault group swarmed forward, splitting into fire teams to methodically clear each structure. Simoni took position behind a low wall, scanning for movement while his partner tossed a grenade through a shattered window.

Two hostiles bolted from the smoke, cut down in a rippling crossfire. An itch prickled at the back of his neck - someone was watching. Simoni twisted just as a shadow peeled away up the street, sprinting for an alley.

"Contact, ten o'clock!" he yelled, swinging his rifle that way on instinct. A short burst stitched the fleeing man's back, dropping him limp and still.

Simoni's comrades flowed past him into the alley without a word, the advance pressing ever onward. His heart throbbed madly, a curious mingling of bloodlust and dread. War was nothing like the stories - only chaos, fear and violence given flesh.

Shouts ahead signaled further fighting. Simoni ran to rejoin his squad, battle-hardened veterans who'd fought in Afghanistan. As long as he stayed glued to their flanks, followed their lead without hesitation, he might see this hellish day end after all. Onward into the unknown, the only direction left but forward into fire.

…

"Comrade Polkovnik! 1st Assault group underway!" the major told Kotrov, who was drinking from his flask.

"Da, very good, keep up the pressure," Kotrov grunted, stowing his flask with a grimace. His belly still churned from last night's revelry, but there was work to be done.

Twenty years in this bastard service had weathered him far beyond his years, yet he alone knew how to wring results from these ragtag conscripts. The pathetic scraps left to defend their motherland - it was all too depressingly familiar.

Kotrov clambered onto a ruptured T-55's turret for a better view. Through his battered binoculars, the colonel watched Third Platoon methodically clearing dense tenements, outmatched rust-bucket Kalashnikovs working through brute force alone. But there - a glint in a high window.

"Taras," Kotrov barked to his RTO, "get Major Yugasvielii on the horn, that sniper's still causing hassle in grid Bravo Six."

As the crackle of distant small arms carried on the breeze, Kotrov eyed the strategic hilltop where remnants of the enemy force had dug in. Without tanks or air cover, taking that position would drain blood like water. And yet orders were orders - hold the highway at all costs.

A grunt behind him made the colonel start. "Report, trooper!"

It was the new politruk, fresh meat still wet behind the ears. "Comrade Kotrov, political officer Maksimov demands a status update. The people demand victory!"

Kotrov sighed wearily. Always the political meddling, never the material support. "Tell him we are making progress, hatching a plan as we speak. Victory shall be ours, glory to the motherland and all that bollocks."

Turning back to survey his men's labors, he took a steadying nip from his mystery hip flask. Another day, another grind-it-out battle against the odds. Just had to keep these boys moving, chipping away piece by piece until the breaking point. By nightfall, that mountain would be theirs or he'd be digging yet another shallow grave...

Nova Arcadia. Landing points of the 442nd Siege Army of the Death Korps of Krieg.

Day-2 of Compliance.

The landings had gone smoothly. Thank the emperor this planet is huge. Lord Commander Vesker Kolm, otherwise known to his troops by his numbered Krieg designation 3556-8294-35-Theta. Or General 35 of 442nd Siege Army of the Death Korps of Krieg mused as he looked at the mass of grey-green colored greatcoats and rebreathers. Shells for the Earthshaker cannon batteries were unloaded, tanks were rumbling out, and one city encircled, without even knowing. A textbook siege scenario if he didn't say so himself.

Logistics Report 0342/D: Fuel reserves at 82%. Ammunition stores at 93% capacity. Disease vectors within acceptable parameters at 0.5%.

Engineer Subcommander 19-4512-99-Iota signaled readiness. "The defenses are emplaced, Lord Commander. On your command, the siege may commence."

Commander 35 nodded acknowledgment. A textbook operation so far. His Kriegers moved with machinelike precision, wasting no motion or breath. Within hours they had surrounded the target city, a feat that would take lesser armies days.

An aide approached. "Scouting squad Gamma has returned, sir. Civilian population estimate at 254,213. No notable military emplacements detected."

"Casualty projections?" asked Commander 35 crisply.

The aide consulted her dataslate. "Standard bombardment pattern Theta should neutralize 83% of biological threats within 36 hours with acceptable collateral damage of 14% infrastructure."

Commander 35 pondered briefly. Civilian losses were acceptable to achieve compliance, yet wasted flesh galled him. "Inform the Cardinal. Request guidance on implementation of non-lethal counterinsurgency tactics to minimize loss of Imperial citizens."

The aide saluted and departed. Commander 35 turned his gaze on the encircled city in the distance. Soon its people would know the Emperor's peace, by righteous fire if necessary. But he preferred precision to devastation where possible. The lives of Imperial citizens were a resource to be husbanded, after all.

Compliance would be achieved, as always, by their methodical hands. For death was their purpose, conquest, their calling. And in victory, one more world would join the Emperor's realm redeemed.

Duty, as ever, was its own reward.

Fort A-3325.

Krieger 7734.

The Captain had ordered everyone to attention out in the trench. Krieger 7734 complied, falling in smoothly with the rest of his comrades. The air was a bit chilly, but the boy didn't show it. Beneath the standard Grey Green greatcoat of the 442nd Siege Army and rebreather, was one of the many vat-grown conscripts, a necessity since Krieg, a man-made Death World, had such a depleted population,

Krieger 7734 was just 14, boys of his age were either frolicking in the fields or going to basic education, he knew none of that. He'd grown up breathing the recycled air of one of Krieg's many underground cities, since the surface was a radioactive wasteland. He'd known sparse comfort, a mother whose face he'd never seen, covered by her rebreather. 7734 was certain he must have gotten at least something, like her eyes or hair for instance. She must have been beautiful at least, because her figure and body had been a perfect shape of an hourglass.

Reality was grey. Literally grey, the dull hue of his issued clothing and armor. Figuratively grey, the grim purpose to which he and his fellows had been fashioned since the womb. Yet in dreams remained verdant what-ifs. Who else might he have been, born unto carefree plains under open skies?

A gust of chill air swirled grit and ash around the platoon. 7734 didn't react, focused intently on maintaining form. But in his mind's eye bloomed vivid green - grass, leaves, all wonders unknown save in wistful fancies of a life denied.

His mind wandered as his body obeyed, turning inward as was often its wont.

What had he gained from his mother? Not her eyes - his were a pale, icy blue that cut keenly through desert sandstorms. Krieger 7734's thoughts drifted as he stood at attention in the trench. Through the foggy lenses of his re-breather, he pondered his faceless mother once more.

All he truly knew was her physique - curvaceous, like the statues some saints he'd seen in primers. And her hair, the sole splash of color in his monochrome memories - a rich chestnut brown, curled in loose waves that framed features lost to the mask all Krieg women wore.

All he truly knew was her physique - curvaceous, like the statues of fertility goddesses he'd seen in primers. And her hair, the sole splash of color in his monochrome memories - a rich chestnut brown, curled in loose waves that framed features lost to the mask all Krieg women wore.

What did she look like beneath that obscuring re-breather? Her eyes, he speculated, were likely a warm brown to match her tresses. Full lips, perhaps, naturally rosy without paint in Krieg's stark environment. Her nose slender, high-bridged - he hoped he'd inherited that refinement, though it was impossible to say.

Most of all, he wondered at her smile. Had it been bright and cheerful? Somber, like so many of his comrades? Or had laughter once come easily, before Krieg leeched all warmth and softness from its people?

In his mind, she smiled now. He gave her a name - Clara - and pictured her face, a feminine mirror of his own nascent features. She stroked his hair, smooth and fair like hers, and told him not to weep. That though they were parted, her love endured...

A harsh bark from the Captain jarred 7734 back to duty. His visage returned to its usual mask of stoicism. But somewhere deep, a bond refused to sever - mother to son, through death and depths of Kreig's abyss.

Riverfront.

Nova Arcadia. Nova Arcadia system.

Cetus Quadrant.

City designated Antares Nox

Red Scorpions Chapter Positions.

"Are our battle-brothers in position?" Chapter Master Casan Sabius, asked the veteran clad in Mark IV Maximus Power Armor. "There," he gestured, plasma cannon crackling with barely restrained fury. "The eastern quarter. My auspex detects concentrated vox emissions from those towering structures. A seat of command, no doubt."

His veterans followed his pointing gauntlet, committing the target to perfect eidetic memory in an instant. "By your will, Lord," said Franks respectfully over the squad-linked commbead. "The 11th stands ready at your word."

Sabius nodded, satisfaction radiating from his master-wrought armor. It had been too long since his sons had known the call to righteous crusade. Too long idling awaiting the glorious return. But complacency bred weakness, and weakness invited corruption.

No, this world would know the Emperor's light, whether willing or no. His people would be uplifted from their depravity into the true faith. Any who resisted would face the Legion's wrath unstintingly.

His ceramite fist tightened momentarily in anticipation of the coming fight. After overlong spent languishing, the Red Scorpions would take the empyrean once more in the name of Mankind's eternal protector. Their blades would shape this world anew.

"For the Emperor!" he roared over the open comm, and beside him his veterans echoed the fearful battle-cry as one. "Descend upon the foe with all haste and fury, brothers! Let none stand against us!"

He tapped keys to bring the city schematics online. "Third and Eighth Companies will hold here, blocking their retreat over the river. While you engage from the flanks, Col. Franks and I will smash them from the front with combined arms. We must stamp out resistance before it takes hold in the underhive."

A rumble rose as predators prepared for the coming hunt. Sabius watched with pride as his warriors carried out final checks with ritual precision, seeking to meet the Emperor's justice. Soon, the traitors' blood would feed these virgin soils, and one more world be reclaimed for mankind.

unified Warsaw Pact/OFN HQ.

Central Lublin.

Republic of Maszowia

June 3rd, 1995, Day 2 of WW3

Sinclair banged his fist on the table as the alien forces began their assault ruthlessly.

"Someone get me a sitrep!"

"Our lines are collapsing sir!" A harried ADC announced before bringing up a map with arrows painted in red marker.

"Our troops near the riverfront are collapsing, the enemy's advancing fast." the aide pointed on the map.

"Damn it! Plug the holes, we need to let the remaining civilians evacuate." Sinclair ordered in his harsh Carolina twang. The situation room fell silent as the dire updates sank in. Sinclair furrowed his brow, scanning the map for any advantage to be gained.

"What of air support?" he asked the aide. "Can our F-16s and MiGs delay them at all?"

The young man shook his head. "Negative sir. Their anti-air batteries are tearing our planes apart - it's like they know our tactics inside out. And...there seem to be aircraft among their ships that outclass anything in our inventory."

Sinclair cursed under his breath. This was no normal invasion force - their technology seemed years beyond even the OFNs best estimates of Vostokvakian R&D. But he had a duty to defend these people, alien threat or no.

"Alright, pull our boys back to these tree lines here." He indicated a dense forested area. "Have engineers rig the trees with explosive charges and lay landmines along the approach. We go guerrilla - make them pay for every meter."

Another officer spoke up. "The 5th Panzer is partially intact. If we can get them into those woods as a mobile reserve..."

"Do it. Every minute we buy the evacuation teams is worth it." Sinclair straightened. "Move out, people - let's show these invaders why you don't mess with the free world."

As staffers scrambled to enact the new plan, he peered again at the infiltrating markers on the map. Where in God's name had they come from, and what more were they capable of?

Central Lublin.

1st Armored Division.

Edenite Army of the Rhine. (EAOR)

Part of Organization of Free Nations NORTHAG (OFN NORTHAG).

June 3rd, 1995

"Everyone! Get the fuck down!"

That had been shouted by a Woodland clad Concordian NCO before he was vaporized before Lt Andre Sholto, 3rd platoon of the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment, 7th Armored Brigade of the 1st Armored Div.

Wincing slightly due to the heat, he slid back inside his Challenger I, where his loader, Sgt Eric Loid, Gunner Harding, and Driver Saunders were. The Challenger's troop compartment still rang from the alien weapon's discharge as Lt. Sholto dogged the hatch shut behind him.

"All present and correct, sir?" asked Sgt. Loid grimly, already busy chambering a fresh round.

"Looks like," Sholto replied, taking rapid stock. "Harding, damage report! Saunders, get us eyes on that bogey, now!"

"Righto, gov'ner," the Cockney driver grinned without humor, flipping switches. His cheerful bravado belied the tension drawing every man taut as bowstrings.

Harding's practiced hands flew over his gunner's station. "Thermal imaging's on the blink, sir. Whatever lit us up fried more than circuits, I reckon."

Sholto scowled. "Keep at it, Gunner. We'll spot for you old-school if we must. Loid, follow my commands - I want suppressing fire on that blighter the moment we acquire a firing solution, aye?"

"Shite!" growled Sgt. Loid as the tank rattled from another near miss.

Harding yelled over the internal comms, "Got a visual, sir - looks like some kind of alien walker, bipedal, heavy armor!"

"Weak points, Gunner?" barked Sholto, already calculating angles as the turret slewed into firing position.

Harding rattled off his observations in clipped tones. "Heat signatures show reactor in the chest, optics band above. Legs seem hydraulically assisted. Aiming for the gullet, sir!"

"On target!" Sholto steadied his scopes and took a breath. "Fire!"

The 120mm sabot lanced from the gun with an earsplitting detonation that shook dust from the alley walls. Through the sights, Sholto watched its unerring flight straight and true, punching clean through the alien metal monstrosity's center mass.

A dull crump sounded as the armor-piercing round punched through the walker's armored torso, a gout of flame jetting from the point of impact. Harding whooped in triumph, but Sholto held up a fist—patience, wait for results.

The creature teetered on unsteady legs a moment before its knee joints faltered, sending it crashing to the broken pavement in an ungainly sprawl of sundered metal. Secondary explosions then bloomed within its chest like fiery flowers, confirming a kill.

Loid's broad grin was visible even behind his soot-stained face as he worked the rammer. "Beautiful shot, Gov'ner! Your old grandmother could'a hit that neon behemoth from here."

"Good shooting all around, lads," Sholto allowed himself a wan smile, adrenaline fading fast. "Our kit still packs a punch even crippled. Harding, scan for—"

He broke off as static erupted from the radio. Saunders dialed frantically to no avail. "Comms are down, sir. Running dark out here."

Sholto scowled thoughtfully. No way to coordinate, support echelons cut off. Classic isolate and destroy tactics. "Fall back to battalion rear and link up the old-fashioned way. Carefully, mind - lord alone knows what else might be prowling for lost kittens."

His squad acknowledged grimly and Saunders wheeled their trusty steel stallion about for the slog back to friendly lines. No rest for the weary, not with an alien menace on the march. But together, they'd hold fast against any comers – that was an Englishman's way. Chin up and carry on, whatever obstacles lay ahead...

Staging point for 7. Panzerdivision.

Lublin.

Midday of June 3rd, 1995.

The Ulraznavian official from the 3rd Army Inspectorate made notes as he continued inspecting the tanks of the unit. They were all T-72s, but right now, he was staring at the garish pinup art decorating the turret.

"What's the meaning of this shit!?" he called over the 3 man crew, who immediately stood to attention. The pinup art in question depicted 3 women, the first had her hair in a bun, her uniform top unbuttoned, revealing a black bikini, behind her, two women were in an embrace, one of them, a blonde giving a sultry look, clad in only a bikini and soviet style tanker helmet, the other one seemed fully clothed at least. On closer inspection however, the woman also had her bdu top unuttoned revealing a white bikini top, and bottoms as she too wore no pants.

"Well." the official probed the three tankmen, wearing the black coveralls of their trade, and helmets.

"They depict our wives, sir." the commander, a handsome blonde removed his helmet with an unabashed grin.

The army inspectorate official,(he was a man from Ansbruck) quizically raised an eybrow "explain, are your spouses in uniform too?"

"Yeah, they are." The inspector noted the commander's accent, capital region, Brandenburg-Belsen.

"So...who's who? Which spouse is yours?" The official closed his notepad with a snap, noticing each of the painted women had rings on their ring fingers. The blonde tank commander grinned before taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Well Inspektor, I'm a young guy, but my little Marzi, 5 years old already and she thinks I'm the best dad in the whole goddamn world, as for the answer to your question..." the blonde man got up to the turret front and pointed at one of the girls, who presumebly was his spouse, with a suprisingly bashful, and prideful look on his handsome face...

"The gal in the bun? She's my wife, and Marzi's mom, the gunner, his wife is...the blonde giving fuck me eyes, , the one who's looking like she's wearing the most clothes, she's Bubi's girl, there in the honeymoon phase."

"Jesus fuck, how do your wives feel about being plastered for all to see?"

The commander grinned, taking another drag before replying. "Don't worry Inspector, the wives think it's fuckin' hilarious. They come by sometimes, point themselves out and rate our artwork."

He nodded toward the turret. "Sabine give herself an 8 outta 10, little generous if you ask me. But Lisa, she only gave the gunner's girl a 6. Said her tits could use more shading."

The gunner laughed. "Bubi almost cried, I tell ya. Then Lisa lit him a new one, said if he wants a 10 he better bring her back a nice souvenir from the war!"

Even the dour inspector cracked a brief smile at that. These men had a battle ahead, let them find joy where they could. He made a final note and closed his book.

"Very well, carry on. But I'd suggest toning the artwork down if the field marshal pays a visit, ja?"

"Yes sir!" they barked in unison, donning their lids again.

As the inspector turned to depart, the commander called after him, "Hey, while you're at it, tell the Fraulein Sabine says their ratings are due for an upgrade!"

City Designated Antares Nox.

Col Franks.

211th New Cadian Regiment.

The colonel yelped as a stray slug hit the concrete wall he was using as cover. Around him, the crack hiss of lasgun fire mingled with the sound of rebel automatic weaponry. While the Red Scorpions Chapter, transhuman supersoldiers, Angels of the Emperor that they were had caused the rebel lines to collapse in their sectors, Franks and his guardsmen were still, lowly unaugmented soldiers off humanity. They didn't have the power armor or weapons of the Astartes, but they had the grit and courage required of any Astra Millitarum regiment.

Peeking over slightly, so as to not cause any notice, he found the rebels suppressing his troops, trapping them. They were getting caught up in street-to street urban warfare, and these rebels fought better than any Traitor Militia. They had decent flak armor and weaponry. Plus, they had no taint of Chaos. Meaning these guys still had the competence of soldiers and were probably on the level of his Guardsmen.

"Mira!" he yelled to the vox caster, "We gettin any CAS?"

"Negative!" the girl screamed before a bullet nearly claimed her head "All assets are tied up "elsewhere."

"Dammit, we're slowing down! We can't advance, and we sure as heck can't retreat, that's suicide! We're gonna have to stay put here and hope for the best!"

"Seriously!" a guardsman hollered over the din. "That's the plan CO? Stay put? For how long?"

"Until some other regiment puts the goddamn pressure off of us, or tank or CAS support, frak it!" Franks yelled back as another volley of fire ricocheted off the concrete. "What do you want me to say, Johnson - wave a magic laspistol and make the bastards disappear? Until backup arrives, we hold this frakking position!"

A Cadian next to him clutched his bleeding side, teeth gritted. "Sir...reinforcements might not...be in time. They're crawling...closer every minute."

"Dustoff's what, 20 mikes out? We just need to hole up here and survive that long," chimed in Sergeant Brody grimly, lobbing a grenade around the corner with a cold chuck.

There was a satisfying explosion and some very offended screaming. "That'll teach 'em," Brody growled.

Someone screamed in pain nearby - Trooper Gabe, sounded like his leg caught one. "Corpsman up!" Franks yelled.

Doc Jones crawled quickly to the wounded man, started patching him up while shouting, "Anyone else hit? Give a holler!"

"Still in one piece here, Sarge," said Private Levy from down the line, drawing a nod.

The barrage intensified outside - those rebels knew right where they were hunkered and meant to pound them into rubble. Franks risked another peek - shit, more enemy flooding in.

"Brace for impact, boys - this is about to get real fething bumpy!"

Bright muzzle flashes strobed the alley as the defenders poured out lead in reply, buying each other precious seconds. 20 minutes felt like forever pinned under this merciless hellfire...

Elsewhere.

Sargent Hectean stomped down what looked like a main boulevard before stopping to fire a bolt into an escaping civilian vehicle, no rebel civilians were going to survive this. The bolt hurled through the air before slamming through the weak frame of the vehicle, igniting the engine when it reached the front and neatly exiting out and hitting a wall a few meters away. The pathetic excuse for a car exploded and began to beltch out flames on the street like a candlebra.

"Pathetic." He spat, voice bassy and modulated through his MK VIII pattern helm as he resumed his stroll through the smoking ruins. One of the passengers exited, whether it was a male or a female, he couldn't tell, but they were screaming as they tried in vain to extinguish the flames. He made no attempt to end their misery, traitors and rebels to the Imperium deserved no better anyway.

The Astartes watched the screaming figure's progress dispassionately, with an air of detatched coolness. Why did they have to make it so dramatic? The burning ones always made it dramatic. He watched impassively as the burning figure danced its agonized jig upon the cracked pavement. Their screeches echoed down the empty boulevard, but carried no more emotion for the Space Marine than the howling of vents in the depths of an asteroid battlestation.

He had heard the death-cries of billions across five centuries of battle. This one was no different - just another traitor to humanity meeting righteous flames. Whether they ended on their feet or fell lifeless made little difference; compliance was all.

The flames consumed flesh and cloth with eager tongue, baring blackened bones that crumpled and cracked in the heat. Still the smoking skeleton jerked and jumped, nerve impulses firing wildly in preserved muscle and sinew long after the flesh had boiled away.

Only when the screaming ceased did Hectean turn to continue his patrol. No use wasting bolter ammunition to end meaningless suffering - better conserved for the enemies who truly threatened the Imperium with treason and heresy. This one had served its purpose as an example, and now furnished nutrients to feed the hungry city's ashes. As the twisting charcoal lump slumped lifeless at last, Hectean turned disinterested eyes upon the smoldering ruins stretching down either side of the avenue.

His Chapter had purged this district with righteous flame, yet compliance was a battle not a moment. Rebellion bred in the hearts of men like vermin, burrowing ever deeper as long as any vestige of the old, corrupt ways remained.

Only by scouring this city down to bare cracked bedrock could the Imperium seed it anew with the true faith. Only then might this world know lasting peace, and its people salvation. Duty remained, as ever.

With heavy tread, Hectean continued his solitary vigil, armor creaking like the march of doom. Compliance was his charge, and he would deliver it as had been done for ten thousand years - with bolter and blade, in the Emperor's name. No matter the cost.