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Genesis The sound of
whistling air on the flanks of the drop pod was ear splitting, sense
wrecking when combined with the dreadful shaking the pod underwent as it
plummeted through Babel’s atmosphere. Within the quaking metal walls metal
straps held twelve Black Templars. Fully armoured though they were, the giant
space marines were being twisted to and fro by the sheer force of friction on
the pod. As the cloud layer faded about them, those nearest the viewport caught
sight of the great cityscape of Port Babel beneath them, the tangled streets of
the great habitation that covered an eighth of Babel’s major continent, and
looming over it all a huge half-finished edifice, a glowering gigantic gargoyle
of a building that sprawled in the midst of the tiny-looking Imperium
habitations. The pod shook and trembled less now they were closer to the ground,
and slowed. The view from the tiny window of reinforced plastic changed to a
vast open space of plasteel, dotted with tall landing control towers – a
spaceport, completely abandoned. The grey floor of the port loomed closer,
closer, and then the pod impacted with a massive crunch, shaking the twelve
marines about like spinning skittles. As soon as the first of them recovered and
activated his release switch, all twelve were unstrapped and reached for their
weapons. Boltguns and chainswords were hefted in black-gauntleted fists, one
marine clutched a meltagun, another a power sword. Three of the marines were
carapace-armoured neophytes who picked up pistols and swords. One of the
chainsword wielders pressed the flashing stud that would open the door to the
outside world and whatever adversaries awaited them. Four
other pods crashed into the ground, shaking the plasteel plates of the spaceport
and embedding themselves deep within. Four other doors opened, disgorging more
Black Templars – one admitted six marines with jump packs to the wide
artificial field, one disgorged a squad armed for close-range firefights, with
combat shotguns for neophytes and boltguns and one flamer for the initiates,
while the other’s mechanical maw revealed Carracus’s veteran squad, kitted
out with a heavy bolter. The largest of the pods yawned open and wires withdrew
from the immense black shape of a dreadnought, an enormous living legend in
steel armour and deadly weaponry. A six-barreled assault cannon sprang from its
left arm and a missile launcher from the right – a devastator dreadnought,
designed for heavy support, the word Orpheus stenciled on its armoured chest.
The last troop pod contained the Marshal’s squad. The standard bearer Uriah, a
techmarine, an apothecary and two initiates armed with storm shields and
chainswords accompanied the tall, proud, axe-wielding Voss. And Darius, the
Emperor’s Champion, all too willing to join the Crusade but unwelcomed by Voss
– still, as the Marshal had said to himself, the boy might as well do
something useful, and Darius was, like it or not, a natural born hero. As
the landing force spread out, fanning towards the nearest buildings, the
defenders struck. Babel’s rebel hive gangers swarmed out of the nearest
control tower, blazing away with crudely mass-produced shotguns and lasguns.
Most of the small arms fire bounced off black power armour, but two initiates
and a neophyte were brought down by sheer weight of fire, one or two shots
piercing the ceramite. Then the gangers brought up a heavy stubber from within
the tower, the brakkabrakkabrakka of the massive bullets spinning a third
initiate from his feet. The
Black Templars responded with customary ferocious efficiency. The dreadnought
opened fire, frag missiles and rapid-firing assault cannon shells blasting
gangers apart. The two combat squads blazed away at long range with their
boltguns, shooting off limbs and tearing torsos open, the heavy bolter of the
veterans wreaking havoc, shattering the glass of the tower windows. To Darius,
the screams of the dying were horribly human. He shuddered, reminded for a
second of Daizann, and then drew his sword, running for the close combat squad.
Voss’ angry eyes followed him for a moment, but the Marshal shrugged and
started firing his storm bolter at the surviving gangers. Cries
of anger emanated from other towers as more gangers emerged from across the way,
well out of bolter range. This group were more heavily armed; ex-workers clad in
factory bodysuits that served well as armour, carrying among them three heavy
stubbers and a selection of advanced shotguns. Their leader, marked out by his
trench coat, carried what looked like a plasma gun. The dreadnought Orpheus
turned towards them and stomped forwards, trying to pick them out in the shadows
of the tower, while Darius motioned the assault squad to fly that way. Yet
more gangers swarmed out of a nearby shuttle hangar, tooled up for close combat.
Voss’ command squad and Darius’ unit started jogging towards them, realizing
that they were making for the veterans, who weren’t armed for close combat.
Darius’ heart sang – at last he felt like life was back to normal. Pounding
across the grey waste of the spaceport, Darius was a fairly impressive sight.
Artificer armour as old as the chapter, complete with an ancient, almost
medieval helmet, the immense Black Sword in his hands, held back over one
shoulder as he ran, crackling softly as it cut the air to ribbons. Around him,
the twelve members of the squad belted out the battle cry he hadn’t used for
two years. “No
Pity! No Remorse! No Fear!” Darius
joined the clamour as he ran, the helmet’s archaic rangefinder whirring as it
counted down the metres to the enemy squad. The gangers were spreading out,
taking up a defensive position and opening fire with a variety of pistols. Lead
slugs and steel bullets alike pinged off Darius and his brothers, and with a cry
of “For the Emperor!” they were upon the gangers. Chainswords
and combat knives lashed out, tearing unprotected flesh apart. Blood spurted
over the thin black line of Templars in crimson fountainheads. Among the press
of bodies Darius resorted to whirling the arcane weapon around in great sweeping
arcs, the sheer force of his blows often shattering bodies open in a sickening
crunch. He came face to face with the gangers’ leader. This was it. This was
the part where he’d know if he was any good as a Champion. He stepped forward,
and instinctively his brother Templars fell back on the defensive. The gangers realized
something was happening too and formed a half-circle about their leader. Tall
and rangy, the man carried a buzzing chainaxe in both hands, his unkempt hair
flying behind him in the breeze, the gang tattoos evident on his face, whorls of
scarlet in a vague spiraling claw-shape. Darius saluted him with the sword and
spoke, trying to sound powerful and aggressive, and thanked the Emperor for vox-speakers. “In
the name of the God-Emperor I challenge you to single combat, to the death.
Accept or be forever damned in His eyes.” “I’ll
take you up on that, lackey of the Dead Emperor.” The ganger motioned his men
back. “Leave this one to me, boys. I’m Raiken of the Red Talon. You?” “Darius
of the Black Templars, heretic.” “No
heretics here, kid.” How did he know how old Darius was? “You sound like
a kid, anyway.” “Age
doesn’t matter, it’s devotion that counts.” “Enough talkin’, let’s go!” Outmanoeuvred in the pre-duel sparring, Raiken hefted his axe thoughtfully, and swung it around at shoulder height, testing Darius’ defenses. Switching to a one-handed grip as the instructor on Diem had taught him, Darius parried, knocking the whirling axe back hard, and then stumbled as the enormously heavy sword nearly fell from his grasp. By sheer luck his outstretched hand landed on Raiken’s collar with a crunch of breaking bones. The gang leader howled and lashed out wildly, dealing Darius a glancing blow, but the return from the Emperor’s Champion was violent in a much more controlled way. Darius grabbed Raiken’s wrist and pulled, dragging the gang leader over, then sliced down with the Black Sword, cutting his spine clean in half. He was dead before he hit the ground. The gangers scrambled back away from the suddenly reanimated Templars before the marines could kill too many of them. Bellowing with righteous anger, the marines gave chase, firing at point-blank range into the gangers’ backs. The voice of Voss chimed over the comm.-link as his squad rounded the hangar and moved to cut the fleeing rebels off. + I
want prisoners, Darius! Don’t kill too many of them! + +
Aye, Marshal! + Darius replied, grabbing a ganger by the back of the neck and
hurling him to the floor. The Templars switched from shooting to blows from
grips and hilts, intended to stun rather than kill. The command squad dealt with
those who had run too far, shooting them down as they slowed and came to a halt.
Voss strode up to Darius and nodded, not in familiarity, his expression was far
too clouded for that. It was more respect, acknowledgment of a job well done.
Then he pointed back towards the landing site. “The
treacherous scum…” he muttered, and started running back, firing bursts at
random. Darius followed his route – then he spotted the gangers who had
surrounded Orpheus. With a sinking heart, he spotted the corpses of the assault
squad – only five. All that remained of the senior was a black mess on the
floor – he’d been shot out of the sky with the plasma gun. As he charged
towards the huge machine, who even while surrounded was firing his assault
cannon into the mass and crushing them under huge, ponderous mechanical feet, he
mentally pieced together what had been going on. The assault squad had lost
their impetus in the face of the senior’s death, and before they could regain
their nerve the gangers had pulled them out of the sky and swamped them – in
those conditions a chainsword was useless, the knives of the gangers were much
more use, cutting away at joints in armour, nibbling at the lives of the
faithful. When
his squad hit the flank of the gang in unison with Voss’, he took his anger
out on the gangers surrounding Orpheus, great slow swings of the Black Sword
decapitating and dismembering, almost always clean wounds. Before he realized it
he’d cleared a path of bloody ruin to the feet of the dreadnought, which was
now stomping forward, gangers throwing themselves out of his path. Over the
comm.-link he heard the deep voice of Orpheus intone the words + MANY THANKS,
BROTHERS, + as it lumbered towards the control tower. Its last missile blew the
top of the building off, and the few remaining gangers scattered, some waving
their arms in surrender, others putting guns to their heads or simply scarpering.
The rhythmic thuds of heavy bolter shells stopped them in their tracks, and Voss
smiled at the prisoners. “So
perish all who defy the Emperor.” Nightfall,
and the landing platform resounded to the sound of a Thunderhawk gunship
squadron roaring overhead. The three stubby shapes of the space-to-ground
transports swung overhead and dropped, spinning on their axes, to the ground.
Within seconds the landing ramps were down and the heavy support of the crusade
was being landed. A Predator drove out of the first, a Vindicator from the
second, and a replacement assault squad from the third. Darius wasn’t watching
them disembark. He was watching the small group who were burning the bodies of
the assault squad survivors. Their precious progenoid glands removed and placed
in cold storage in the apothecary’s medi-pack, the five marines had been
stripped from their armour and laid before the blazing redemption of a flamer
nozzle. The group split up as the corpses burned, Carracus leading them, and
Darius walked over to meet them. “Darius,”
said the veteran with a nod. “Six dead within half an hour. This isn’t
good.” “What
about the enemy?” “Of
sixty-seven gangers, we’ve killed fifty-nine. Voss is interrogating the
prisoners now, and he’s shooting them one by one. Bloodthirsty bastard. Why
does he have to shoot them in cold blood? Nearly all of them surrendered.” “They’re
rebels, Carracus. People yes, but first and foremost the enemy.” “You
would say that. You’re the Champion, you’re supposed to be a paragon of
faith and light to us all.” Carracus’s old face was almost angry. “Those
who fear the darkness have never seen what the light can do.” “Someone I once knew didn’t look at things that way. An inquisitor called Carravar. He was with us on Daizann pretty much until the last moment. He said that the end justified the means, but I never thought he meant it. Not until he died so that we could go on. He really would pay any price to beat Khastarax, anything at all. Do you see what I’m getting at?” “Aye.
I still don’t think it’s proper to kill someone who’s submitted, but I
suppose you’re right. In the end it’s the planet that’s important, not the
scruples of an old marine who’s seen too much.” Shaking his head, Carracus
laid a hand on Darius’ shoulder. “And a word of advice. Don’t use that
sword one-handed till you think you’re strong enough. You nearly killed
yourself with that missed parry today; it’s damn lucky you landed on their
leader. I know it’ll slow you down, but until you get used to it you may have
to be slow.” “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Darius, deep in thought. Were they doing the right thing in interrogating the prisoners? Did it matter what one man thought if an innocent world was saved? Was Voss murdering people? ‘Speak of the devil…’ he thought as the Marshal stormed out of the hangar and towards him. “Did you get anything from them?” “Nothing. Whoever’s organizing this has them scared to the Eye and back.” Voss fell into step with him. “I was impressed with you today, Darius. I still don’t like you, but I’m prepared to give you another chance.” “Do you think our being here has put the rebels off trying anything?” “Yes, but they’re not the only problem, remember?” Voss pointed to the closest of Babel’s small mountain ranges, the only feature that penetrated the flat, grim moors of the mining world’s surface. Although not exactly mountainous, the hills were steep and craggy, and there were lots of them, pushed extremely close together. And over that cluster of hills was a dim red glow, like that of a vast area of campfires, or maybe one huge inferno somewhere amidst the tors. Voss growled as Darius looked at him, a question in his eyes. “There are orks in those hills. I can as good as smell them.” “Then let’s get them out, sir. I think we’ve put enough fright into the rebels to revise the plan.” “As I said, I’m giving you a second chance. Tomorrow at first light, when we have the land speeder and bike units, we’ll move, and leave most of the infantry here.” “Could you request a Razorback, Marshal? Lascannon armed if possible?” “Why?” “Perhaps,” said Darius, “I just feel lonely without brother Carracus, or perhaps we need some foot assault troops to defend the tank?” ‘So this is command?’ thought Darius. ‘I don’t see what’s so difficult.’ “Well done, Darius,” said Voss without a glimmer of enthusiasm for this alteration in his plans. “You’re learning.” |
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