Chapter 4
The captain
Extract
"Why we do what we do is a gateway into ones very mind, how it sees and functions, emotions that wane and flare with each passing day. Some hold to guarded oaths, their identity being composed of servitude to something higher than themselves. Others of freer spirit lean on liberty of one's soul, unbound of morality and societal constraints, in turn becoming ever more jaded with their own psychic, falling ever deeper into the pits of despair, replacing cold chains of the minds with those in silk and perfume, a prison of its own, unknowingly changing masters in search spiritual freedom- decadents taking root. Their very thoughts becoming the darkest pools of poison, flowing ever freer. For the night is dark and full of terrors." – The lost pages from the remembrancer of the 3rd Legion.
Each step weighted and stepped with ease, he felt fate itself pull him into the mega structure that was the Arrakeen Palace, grand and minimalist its size and tonnage could rival a spire city from mars industrious heart. It was as great as it was terrible, a shield against the harsh sands and winds that penetrated deep into the civilised part of the continent. It glowed as a heartbeat might in a body, slow and steady it breathed. Even as its limbs and outer shell were breached it remained steadfast. If he were correct in this realm or universe it was one of mankind's greater achievements. A promise for the fledgling race that stood unimpeded in its home galaxy.
He remembered the tall spires of Terra, great behemoths of hives spread across the once desolated wastelands, their roots sinking deep into the mantle, providing strong supports alongside the excitement of hidden treasures and archeo-tech that still lingered in the former mausoleum of mankind's ambition. It was strange but brought an air of similarity to the home sick captain. He hadn't seen terra in over 3000 years. Between time lodged in warp travel and his deployments he felt estranged of his home planet. A kinship perhaps long forgotten. He took up a confident walk, facing little to no challenge, smoke plumed upwards, trees blazed in front of him and next to them were the Atreides POWs held for ransom or for torture he could not tell. Deciding the straight approach was best he stepped out of the shadows, no longer being unnoticeable.
-DOOM Eternal OST - The Only Thing They Fear Is You (Extended Intro)
Heads turned as sure as the sun would rise the next morning and looked upon his mighty figure. His battle commendations and parchment stuck to his body flapping in the wind that threatened to become a fire storm. Axe held in one hand and bolt pistol in the other, light gleamed of his helm and chest leaving bright spots of gold and orange that contrasted to the dark night that engulfed the planet. Combat blades were held in little confidence as he strode forward, red lenses piercing into the very soul of all who stood there with the surety of death itself.
With the flex of his foot, he surged forward, catching the leap with his left foot propelling himself to faster speed. Speeds that the human eye could not track with glee. He held the axe out arm stretched to its full extent going to the left column first. Like a headman's axe, heads went rolling. Mere skin and bones posing no challenge to the crackling power axe of the Invictus suzerain. Right hand bent with the bolt pistol aimed at the far end of line he let lose a series of shots, avoiding the Atreides. The next Harkonnen didn't quite process what happen as a fist caved his chest. Face limp with an open mouth, a soundless scream that wasn't heard. Teeth bent crooked, the very skin having been flayed by the gauntlet, hanging like wet paper. The white complexion gone, replaced by deep gory red.
He stepped forward, axe swinging men fell like wheat in a field. For all their martial prowess they fared little better than menial servants who laboured in the industry of the Imperium. He'd not give them respite; he would give them his axe and steel. The sand became muddy with the gore, the small rodents and insects thanking the titan as they burrowed from the deep as soon as the violence subsided.
Having finished the left column the bolt gun left sprays of metal that impacted and buckled the shields. Even if the shields stopped the rounds the subsequent explosion and change in air pressure would see the victims dead. He decided to not expend anymore of his round being rare or impossible to come by and faced the now huddled group in the centre. At the back he saw Rabban, the nephew of the Baron; good. A pale grief-stricken face, it was the picture of the brutalisation he sought to inflict on others having been done on himself. A weasel of a man, strong only when he surrounded by the meek. He fixated on the eyes of flitching worm; a shout escaped his lips "Get him." It was primal, afraid; reeked of loud uncertainty.
The Atreides having been freed from the captors rose steadily, legs having been bound for some, others nursing head injuries. He flexed his ear, listening to the unsteady breaths of the prey before him, a step is all he took, and the front line flinched. He took another axe hanging low, inviting any challengers. Taking the response, he simply charged into the mass of bodies, his weight and speed crushing and breaking most bodies, the resistance they offered being poultry in comparison. In the corner of his eye, he saw Rabban run followed by the back of pack. Foot squelching underneath the blanket of crushed bodies and blood he decided and weighted the benefits and risks of letting such man go. Rabban had been humiliated on what was supposed to be his victory, he gave it a thought and let him scurry off, he'd reap his bounty another time.
He turned his head, the suit quiet as always, except for some misgivings in the servos he turned fully to the assembled host of dozens. They looked ready to except whatever fate befell them, not running or begging, simply standing in unison with abated breath, ragged and wet. "What are you?" one of them, the wone who looked to be nursing an egregious head wound, laying on his back his comfort being from that two other Atreides, a man and a woman. "You move with grace bewilding of your size, the heraldry I do not recognise. Who are you?" The sentence left with a deep swallow.
"I am Herlocus, Captain and Venerable Host of the Ultramarine Chapter and Legion, proud servant of the Emperor of Mankind, son of Guilliman, veteran of the Heresy and Crusade, protector of the 500 realms." He finished on a lengthy note. The iron resolve being amplified by his vox speakers, his voice being grated on whetstone by the communication system, coming out as rock striking rock, harsh and imposing. The stood and watched, mulling over what they sure heard. None of them have heard of Guilliman or the Ultramarines and their realm of 500 worlds. They were sure he also served another Emperor. The quality of the warrior and their iron discipline reflected on this other emperor some thought, martial skill was well respected and learned in their world. It was unforgiving as shown just now.
"What do we do?" Another asked melancholily, 'Yes indeed what to do, the space port was taken-no way to leave through there. Could take them into the palace, that would thin the herd, maybe rid him of the inconvenience. While cruel, they couldn't survive or escape in their large number with the injured. He could, they couldn't.' "We make for the Palace, find the heir and rescue him." That seemed to satisfy whatever need for purpose they had and moved on. 'It was a cruel existence for them, false hope, if he could he'd save some then….'
He turned to leave the wet sand that clinged to his armour, a large swarth of survivors following filled with renewal, some semblance of a plan and optimism.
The drums of war rang deep in the empty chasms of the fortress. Blood stains and bodies lay spread scarcely, it seemed that the occupants might come back and resume what was left unfinished. Tapestries hung solemnly in the night, the survivors scavenging weapons, Holtzman shields and what medical supplies could be found. He watched them momentarily, distracted by their mad scurries. He truly felt bad for them. The wounded lagged behind like sacrificial offerings for whoever came for them, easy pickings. "Come we have much to go." He said an encouragement for them and himself. Stranded and lost like an unsupervised child he walked the corridors, a silent grave for those who died. The halls enveloping them in their great size, the depths of their grief filling them the further they came. Several survivors acting as guides to the transhuman as they slipped unnoticed.
They came to the windows that saw them see the city die once more. No care for the populace, a gaze to the left and far beyond saw the spice and accompanying infrastructure change hands unmolested by the fires. 'Spice' he thought, 'such an alien way to travel between the stars.' He moved the spared gaze, leaving the fires to be accompanied by the shooting stars that broke through the smoke and grime overhead, allowing the stars to shone once more on the pyres of the dead corpse crags and city.
One of the wounded spoke up, "Did we hurt them, Captain? Did this mean anything." He finished.
"Yes, we hurt them here." They were the last stalwarts in their glorious last stand. He had gathered them in the remaining remains of the Arakeen palace. This was the end, and they all knew it but none of them gave voice to that matter. The grime-streaked faces looked to each other in the comfort of brothers in arms, men and women who would all die together in honour. They all knew they lived on borrowed time now and they'd make the most of it.
Turning away they followed the captain with silent contempt. "How much further towards the Boys chambers." His voice cut the livid minds if the Atreides men at arms. "Not much further." They led the way in three's, the first checking corners before the rest rounded them. They would need to take a service lift, from one of the lower storage rooms. The daunting trip became tamed falling into a cadence of a smooth river, the exhilaration and adrenaline wasted.
They finally came to the main entrance where the service lift waited. The large four by four room stretched beyond. On the right flying machines stayed cold, with draped grey tarps over them or opened to inspection with maintenance having been left unsettled. On the left were towing vehicles and what looked to be the place of the master at arms. The low dim white lighting in the centre made the darkness swallow the ends of the room, leaving the red gates of lift on the other end. It was an exposition of parts and trinkets in cold storage, this served two main purposes, to simultaneously service all vehicles and to equip passing troops. This established the dynamic of what they'd face when taking the lift, the intelligence of the layout. He could either imagine there being transport infrastructure or troop barracks in their general direction; 'potentially useful' he added. It would reward him later.
"We take this lift and go to section 63-B, we follow the grand stairs to the family quarters. The Duke's son should be there." His face drawn by the faint whisper, a shaking subsided, dust falling the cavernous ceiling; lights swaying. "We move now." He told the congested blob of followers. He picked up pace, each leg propelling him forwards, the cold metal floors of the corridor reverberated with the hurried footsteps of Captain Herlocus, a hulking figure clad in battle-scarred power armor. Each stride he took resonated with palpable urgency as he moved toward the stronghold's lift, the distant sounds of chaos and destruction echoing from the shaking perimeter. Around him, the ragtag group of injured and freed men stumbled forward, their rough-hewn faces marked with calm and some desperation. He came to rest inspecting the interface of the lift, its foreign design irritating him.
One of the men a, levenbrech, young and green, pale and yellow faced from the altercations; a junior officer came to him, who was surely not inexperienced anymore by this night. He turned to face as he came beside him and looked at the interface panel, before working his magic. "The Harkonnen have accessed the central mainframes, were fortunate this one was isolated by a node." The doors slid open, with a quick 'whoosh,' air parting and intermingling with the lifts. Without a word being said they funnelled inside, 43 in total, it'd be a squeeze with him inside. The wounded made noises of discomfort as they were woven tight together. "We go up." The young officer finished, pressing a key.
The captain knew that to keep their cool he had to give them something to do, if he couldn't do that, then something to hope for. He'd realise that their use of melee weapons was favourable to him, giving him all the advantages that they could never have. No bolters or stubbers, they did have lasweapons though not similar to his own, they were more dangerous and carried greater risks. If memory served right or eaten right, he recalled if they interacted with Holtzman shields an affect similar to atomics would undergo. Dangerous he thought.
The lift began to shift, lurching upwards, the clacking accelerating as they sped towards the target, entire levels passed in seconds. Happily, they weren't over the weight limit as he forgot to check, the industry lift having been built to carry heavy loads of ammunition and vehicle parts. A lmmenbrech, a sergeant or NCO as he remembered by the collar markings, came to him. "What do we do when we reach the quarters and find them?" It was a good question; they wanted a clearer plan. In honesty he was just following a tugging feeling inside him, whether it was instinctual or supernatural he couldn't determine. He had no overall plan after finding Paul, he figured the rest would've been spurred on in the heat of the moment. The logical choice would have been to evacuate them to friendly held territories that were uncontested or ferry them off world. "The fremen," he continued. "The fremen Naib of Sietch Tabr, they came here to treat, they'd perhaps take us. They respect the fighters." A good point that was full of uncertainty he recognised. "We try to find a way off world, if not we go try with the fremen." He spoke softly, removing the helm with an audible double click and venting of air followed by a twist.
The screens told him they had 2 more minutes before arriving to their desired level. Removing the helm and resting it on his chest. A heroic carving of man flesh met them, a face- a mans face. Big and sharp, clean-shaven jaw made of granite accompanied by a monumental gaze that could force its will on anything. On his head overgrown blonde curls threatened to cover his ears, deep blue eyes similar to that of Guilliman's met theirs. His age was indeterminable, features belonging to old and young dotted his face, healed scars of lighter skin accompanying them closely. The face was similar enough to the busts of great conquerors of old, albeit with a flare of its own. Regal and soldiery in its own unique way. It was impulsive, his action of removing his only protection that ensured no stray round or bad luck would end him. He guessed he wanted them to understand that another person was behind the glamour and muscle, the power armour rendering him inhuman to others, despite its regalia. He slid it on with comfortable ease and looked back towards the lift entrance or exit as it would be in a minute.
It did amuse him to see their gawking faces, if the difference between him and the newer Astartes was that he did find joy in surprising others, albeit also a small nudge towards his built-up self-image. The newer recruits spoke of honour and glory but hadn't participated in the Crusade or Heresy, they spoke of hardship but hadn't seen brother kill brother, legions at each other's throat. Entire planets becoming barren wastelands, a clash of ideology.
The lift began to slow, coming to a full rest; the outside pressurising with inside to allow the disembarkation of the Atreides host and lone space marine. The came to the main staircase, after a tense waiting to listen for any unwanted attention. If the lower levels had been a skirmish the grand staircase had been a bloodbath, bodies littering the steps. Halberds, Dama steel swords hanging lose from their owners, both Harkonnen, Atreides and Sardaukar joined the blend of casualties. Household guards and common soldiery had been aroused from sleep by the falling shields and put up a defence worthy of tale and songs. The fine legions of the Atreides having proved a fine match.
This reminded him of the last stand on Istvaan three, the tale having been spread by astropathic cries among the Legions. How a hundred of Tarvitz's loyalist remained, all gathered up in the remains of the war singer's temple. All grime-streaked faces from months toil, had forged a brotherhood that transcended their gene sires Legions. They remained true what they swore, and for that they were killed. Loyalty killed them, not that the men who died on the staircase had any choice to surrender.
They fanned out some climbing the stairs the injured in middle, protected by the fighting pack.
Out of curiosity he'd taken one of the Holtzman shield generators from the fallen and placed it himself, he'd observed from the still fighting few place-it on themselves and activating it. Mimicking their action, he was rewarded by a loud reverberating shriek of red pulsating layers unable to properly overlap. His hand reaching and removing it, turning off the mechanism. A look of embarrassment settled on the captain's face but was hidden. Silent curses traversed through assembled men and women.
"The frequency of the shield isn't refined to someone of your size, so its unable to reach resonance, it couldn't form a complete shield." He worthlessly whispered; position already given. He'd keep it, placing it in one the many pouches, moving to lead the host of survivors. With quick purpose, space was made for his hulking figure. Rich black tapestries hung at the head of the stairs with a red hawk, the room itself held a presence of age and timeless construction. Shouts in the guttural language of the Harkonnen was heard above, he'd press for space to engage with the slowly swarming and now alerted Harkonnen's that began to envelop their position. Moving to engage first, he reached the top of the stairs, the others being halfway there.
He came gently towards the cacophony of shouting voices that spilled into the main room, great axe finding itself in his hands again. Blue sparks of radiating energy and plasma engulfing the edge of the venerable weapon. It provided a soft low source of light that illuminated the outlines of his armour, giving him the look of a wandering phantom with red dots for eyes. They came confident as they all did, thinking perhaps a few Atreides had slipped through the cast net; but it was no to be, the easy prey they sought was far away, halfway up the stairs and climbing. The hunter became the hunted by their unknown assailant. Red eyes casting judgment-hanging in the darkness; a partial edge of the helmet illuminated by the thum of the axe. Outlines of his great bulk became evident leaving little to the imagination. It was both beautiful and terrible.
With a great will, he beseeched forwards into the clamour with such fury it stunted his foe into inaction, seeking submission he brutalised the Harkonnen levies. Prioritising scenes of carnage and destruction to break their will, an iron hammer to strike the anvil. Swipes like a scythe in fields of grass, broke the front ranks. He grabbed the head of another, squeezing slowly, helmet cracking under his grip. A scream of desperation, a plea filling the rest with fear and disbelief, before he ended it with closing of his gauntlet fist. The remaining body dropping on the floor with slick thud, breaking the silence and stares of the rest. He punched another, hand coming clean through one end through the other side, a gasp being exhumed from the limp body as he raised it above his head in a display of barbarism; before launching the flesh puppet at mach fuck towards the Harkonnen line.
The back line hesitated and ran in the opposite direction, the slowest looking behind afraid it might catch up to them; the demon of Alam Al Mythal. He continued to look at the fleeing Harkonnen, a spectre given form. His regalia hidden underneath the layers of dried and fresh coats of blood. His eyes ever piercing through the darkest of nights. He twisted his axe in a downwards arc flicking the blood that hadn't been evaporated by the power field. "We move." Unbothered by the looks of awe and fear that spread tumultuously.
He moved deceptively slow in large stride, covering the ground to the doorway where it would take them to the family quarters. Plunging deep into the new unknown, they'd seen what awaited those who bore the Atreides banner, but neither the servants nor menial workers had been spared the blade. Few bodies scattered the floor, their blood decorating the walls behind them in swaying pattern of congealed dark red. The fanned out several of the injured taking this opportune moment to rest, either by leaning on the walls or sitting, protected by their ever-vigilant kin.
They found no boy or mother. The Duke's footprints faint as they were showed them returning towards the depths of the fortress. He sighed and looked for clues.
That's it, will write another chapter to wrap this up to the point where it all converges with Herlocus meeting Paul and Idaho. I did have a little fun with the mach fuck. Till next time.