Two Suns. Warhammer 40K Fiction.
Disclaimer and stuff. Warhammer 40K isn't my universe. If it was, I'd be rich enough to take my family to see Garbage in Atlanta tonight, and the Heat in San Antonio tomorrow.. And I damn sure would. I'd also hire myself to write a brace of novels. The rights to the universe belongs to Games Workshop and Black Library. Is there anyone who didn't know that? I wrote this piece just for our enjoyment. On the other hand, if you like my writing, you might want to check out my alternate-history, military adventure, with paranormal elements novels, World at War: Revelation. Yeah, I love writing, but you gotta put bread on the table.
Two Suns
Mark H. Walker
Suffer not the alien to live.
Sergeant Westanof, commander third squad, 3rd Company of the Dark Angel Space Marines, slammed his fist into the bulkhead of the Imperial Cruiser Valiant. The God Emperor‘s words were more than edict to Westanof. They were as real as the power armor clothing him, as forceful as the boltguns cradled in his squad’s armory.
The Valiant had battled these aliens, the neon orange Eldar pulsar lasers streaking across the velvet black of space, crossing swords with the Valiant’s missiles and the brightly burning kinetic rounds of its 210mm rail guns. The Valiant’s shield had largely held, the Eldar’s largely had not. The xenos ship’s destruction had been before them, the triumph real enough to taste, and then the Eldar ship had jumped into the void.
They pursued the Eldar Shadow class cruiser through the warp, emerged when the astropaths directed, but now… Now there was nothing. Again Westanof slammed his fist into the bulkhead.
“There are no Eldar in that metal, Brother Sergeant.” The voice, deep and sonorous,
“We had them, Captain. They were right before us.” Sergeant Westanof shook his head. “And now they are gone.
“They are not gone, Brother Sergeant. They are just not here. There is a difference. We will find them, but it appears the God Emperor has laid yet another task at our feet.” The
Captain tapped a glowing button on the wrist of his power armor, and a holographic display blossomed between the two of them. Elsewhere on the strike cruiser’s bridge the crew focused on their duties, the information in the display already known to them or of no interest.
 |
| Yeah, I know. Not a Dark Angel. I like the picture. |
The display was of the solar system in which the Valiant had emerged. A sun, much like Sol, rotated slowly in the center of the holograph. Around the sun seven planets circled. The Captain spoke. “The Valiant’s Auspex indicates inhabited, indeed civilized, planets.”
Three planets—the third, fourth, and fifth—glowed, highlighted with a gesture of Captain Demothi’s fingers. “It appears that we are not the first to enter this system, Brother Sergeant.”
Westanof studied the glowing orbs. “Are they human?
“Auspex scans are incomplete, there is much interference. Atmospheric composition and gravity are almost identical to Terra’s, there are pervasive radio transmissions, and thermal readings consistent with energy plant atomics.”
Another gesture and hologram zoomed to the largest glowing orbs. It was a planet not unlike Terra. The planet slowly revolved in front of them, a beautiful blue-green sphere, with sparkling seas and verdant forests. Numerous satellites circled the planet, of which at least one appeared large enough for habitation.
Westanof studied the display for a moment. “Advanced, I see.”
“Yes,” replied the Captain.
“Are they of the Imperium?”
Captain Demothi didn’t reply, for it was then the cruiser’s forward pictograph flashed to life.
On the flat screen was a face; a human face, and it was not of the Imperium.
****
The Thunderhawk bucked like a restless Attilan steed, the sub-orbital assault ship fighting against the planet’s thick atmosphere. Sergeant Westanof and his squad sat in the jump seats, secured by over-shoulder retainers. Westanof studied his fellow Space Marines. Each of his brothers had endured dozens of such descents. Their faces remained impassive.
His Micro-Bead hissed. “Sergeant.” It was the Thunderhawk’s pilot.
“Here,” Westanof replied.
“Forward, if you please.”
A moment later Westanof entered the cockpit. Pilot and co-pilot were at their controls; above him another of their chapter manned the turbo-laser destructor. They had dropped below the cloud layer and before him a sparkling blue sea lead to white, sandy beaches, and towering buildings beyond. Impressive, but it was nothing compared to what awaited his eyes outside the side windows. There, matching the Thunderhawk’s altitude and speed were two sleek war birds, their swept wings and twin vertical stabilizers unlike anything that he had seen.
“How long?”
Keeping his eyes forward, the pilot shrugged. “A minute, maybe less.”
Westanof studied the war bird to the right. Gray paint coated the fuselage and wings, a lavish illustration of a black feline adorned the left vertical stabilizer. Multiple missiles nested under the wings. A lethally beautiful plane.
“Contact?” He queried.
The pilot shook his head.
“Yet we know they can communicate. The face aboard the Valiant spoke high gothic.”
“Apparently so,” the pilot agreed.
“Very well,” Westanof replied. “Follow the flight plan. Land at the provided coordinates. If they meant us harm, that harm would already have been done.”
As requested by the face aboard the Valiant, the Thunderhawk landed on a concrete pad, near the center of the city by the sea, the war birds peeling off a kilometer before the Thunderhawk touched down. The city was huge, but not in the crowded dirty manner of so many of the Imperium’s underhives. The towering skyscrapers were well spaced, and suns’ golden light gleamed brightly on the structures’ large-paned windows. Tall green-leafed trees lined broad streets, and parks periodically punctuated the buildings’ sentences. The citizens walked the streets and played in the parks, turning to look as the Thunderhawk whooshed overhead, pointing at the assault craft, their mouths open wide in wonder.
The over-shoulder restrainers released with a hiss.
Westanof looked across the aisle, his eyes meeting those of Brother Maska, Westanof’s second in command. Maska’s steel blue eyes stared back unflinchingly. His short, blond hair gleamed in the Thunderhawk’s interior lights.
“Bolters on safe, Brother,” Westanof ordered.
Maska nodded without comment.
“Clipped to the hip, helmets off.”
“Is that prudent, Brother Sergeant?” Maska queried. “They met our descent with war birds; the Auspex indicates armored vehicles in the base two kilometers distant.”
“It is prudent to avoid a confrontation with a planet that may yet be our friend,” replied Westanof. “And it is most certainly prudent to avoid fighting a planet with but a squad of us.”
Westanof rose, making a show of clipping his bolter to its holster. Maska followed his lead. Westanof let his hand drop to the hilt of his power sword, Liberator, secured on the opposite hip, and hoped he wouldn’t need the vicious melee weapon for today’s work. On both sides of the aisle, their fellow Space Marines stood, their power armor servos purring softly.
“Bolters on safe, clip them to your hips, Brothers.” Maska echoed Westanof’s orders. The click-clacking of the power armor’s magnetic holsters was the only reply as the Space Marines obeyed the command.
One, a copper-skinned man with lengthy black hair knotted at the back of his head made to don his helmet.
Westanof placed a hand on his armor. “No helmets, Brother Vipponoa. We want to share your beautiful visage with this world.”
“Yes,” answered Vipponoa with a grin, “that would most certainly be their privilege.”
And then the Space Marines were outside, lined next to the Thunderhawk. From across the strip a single, lone automobile approached. It was black, and the windows were heavily tinted. Maska, who stood next to Westanof, leaned close. Westanof assumed his second in command didn’t wish to use the intra-squad Micro-Bead.
“Of course we are not just one squad,” whispered Maska. “We are a company, and even then the Valiant can cleanse this world with but the push of a button. This planet will swear its allegiance or wish it had.”
Westanof nodded. “Agreed, but let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Yes, let us hope,” replied Maska, “but let me ask you this, my Sergeant.”
“You are full of questions, Brother Maska,” Westanof chuckled.
Maska didn’t share the chuckle. When he replied his voice was low and serious. “Have you seen an Aquila ?”
Westanof knew the answer to that question, and had contemplated its ramifications since the moment they had stepped off the Thunderhawk, perhaps earlier. Nowhere had Westanof seen the Aquila , the sign of the God Emperor, the holiest icon in the Imperium of Man. There were no churches with the emblem of the two-headed eagle, although their Thunderhawk had flashed by buildings that bore a resemblance to the Imperium’s churches, neither was the sign painted on the war birds, nor on the grill of the approaching automobile. That absence did not bode well for this world, but neither had Westanof seen any signs of the gods of chaos. That gave him hope.
With a swish of its tires, the long black car rolled to a stop. From the front left a man emerged, dressed in dark slacks, coat, and white shirt. A thin strip of black cloth circled his neck under the collar of his shirt, and dropped down to his waist. The man wore dark eyeshades and a Micro-Bead in his ear. Without a glance at Westanof, he strode briskly to the rear of the car and pulled the door. Simultaneously, the car’s other doors opened. Two other men, dressed identically to the first, emerged and took station on either end of the car. From the rear door emerged a man without the eyeshades, dressed similarly to the others, but in beige jacket, white shirt, and a colorful striped cloth about his neck.
This man smiled brightly and strode toward Westanof, who stood slightly in front of his men. The smiling man stopped short and extended his hand. Unsure how to respond, Westanof mimicked the gesture. The other, looked at the larger, power armored glove and laughing, grasped the glove in both of his.
“Sergeant Westanof, I presume?” The man’s voice was strong, his accent surprising. Not unlike High Gothic, Westanof noticed.
“At your service,” Westanof replied, “and the service of the God Emperor of mankind.” Westanof withdrew his hand from the other’s grasp and affected a small bow, missing the curious expression his words evoked on the other’s face.
When Westanof straightened the man was once again beaming. “This is a magnificent day for our people. We have traveled through space, but never out of our solar system. We have found life, small creatures on Trinidad and Cinquanto, but, but… to meet beings from another solar system, indeed from another galaxy, and then to find that they are like us, human. It is just incredible.” He paused, still smiling broadly at Westanof. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Secretary Stallings, the first ambassador of planet Earth.
****
“We should have killed them on the spot, Brother Sergeant,” Maska hissed. “Slaughtered their heretic bodies and returned to the Valiant.”
They rode in a large open-topped truck, noisy and smelly, sitting on the wooden benches that lined each side, on their way to break bread with the planet’s (Westanof refrained from calling it Earth) leaders. The ambassador’s car was too small to fit even one Space Marine in battle armor, let alone the entire squad. On the benches the other Space Marines nodded their agreement with Brother Maska’s words.
“Slaughter them for what, Maska, the name of their planet?”
“But it is the name of ancient Terra,” injected Brother Vipponoa.
Westanof nodded. “I know that, but I also know that the number of inhabited plants number in the tens of thousands, with more discovered with each beat of our hearts. It is inevitable that two would share a name.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Maska, “but answer me this, Brother Sergeant. Have you seen an Aquila ?”
****
The table was magnificent, the courtyard that held it even more so. Made from smooth polished stone—marble, Secretary Stallings had called it—the table formed a “T” the long arm twenty meters long, the crossing arm another fifteen.
On either side were benches sturdy and squat, easily capable of holding Westanof’s men. The tables were lavishly adorned with fruits, sweet smelling pastries, steaming meets, and colorful vegetables. It was impressive, immense even, words that also described the courtyard. At least a kilometer square, and filled with gardens, trees, and paths, all of which seemed to serve no purpose other than the frame the lavish place in which they were to eat.
They had entered through ornate gates, parking the truck in front of the towering white structure that surrounded these gardens on three sides.
“Our capital,” Stallings had replied when Westanof asked about the building’s purpose.
Westanof and Maska were seated at the crossing arm of the “T.” Beside them sat Secretary Stallings, beside Stallings a man in flowing robes, a golden amulet hung from his neck. Engraved on the diamond-shaped amulet were two shining orbs, one slightly eclipsing the other, a curious icon for a single-sun system, thought Westanof. The remainder of Westanof’s squad sat along the leg of the “T.” Interspersed among his marines were various dignitaries, most of whose names he had forgotten.
No soldiers stood watch over the meeting. Yes, the dark-suited, micro-bead men were ever-present, but if they were armed they had not shown the weapons to the marines. In fact, Westanof hadn’t seen any signs of weaponry since they had landed. And that made him uneasy. Westanof had spent most his in combat. Like hungry wolves at a woodcutter’s cabin, the enemies of mankind clawed at the Imperium’s door, ever seeking an entrance, ever seeking to destroy what the God Emperor had constructed. Hence, the lack of security felt disturbing. And that made Westanof’s finger, the finger that pulled the trigger on his boltgun, itch.
“I hope the food is palatable, Sergeant?”
Secretary Stallings’ words shook Westanof from his dark thoughts.
He turned to face the face the smiling man. Always smiling.
Westanof managed a smile of his own.
“Of course, Secretary, much of the food is the same as our own.” Several of his squad overheard his response and nodded in agreement. Vipponoa spoke to a dark-haired man across the table from him. “These apples look exactly like those grown on Cadia.” The dark-haired man nodded in agreement, although Westanof doubted he had ever been to Cadia.
“We have a tradition on our three worlds,” stated Stallings. “We say a blessing before each meal, especially at a large gathering such as this.”
“Westanof nodded, we also give thanks to the God Emperor.”
Stallings inclined his head inquisitively, “A God Emperor?”
An icy finger traced Westanof’s spine. “Not a god emperor, Secretary. The God Emperor of mankind, to whom we all,” Westanof gestured with his armored glove at the assembled men and women, “swear fealty, obedience, and indeed our lives.”
For the first time since greeting them, Secretary Stallings’ smile dropped. He studied Westanof for a long moment. At last Stallings turned to the robed man. “Father, would you lead the blessing?”
“Dear God. Lord of all we see, maker of the planets, spirit of the sun, we beseech thee…”
“Stop this heresy!”
It was Maska, towering over the assembled, boltgun leveled at the robed man leading the prayer.
Perhaps, thought Westanof in the breath that followed, there was another way, but he didn’t know what way that would be. Neither the Secretary, the clergyman—for Westanof knew that was what the robed figure must be, nor any of this Earth’s denizens, had shown knowledge of, let alone allegiance to, the God Emperor of Mankind. And now their clergy led prayers to a deity not the emperor, but another god, a different god. It was heresy, alien, and the Dark Angels would not suffer the alien to live. These thoughts flashed through Westanof’s mind in no more time than it took his twin hearts to beat once, twice, possibly thrice.
And in that time the dark suited men drew weapons from beneath their coats, puny, hand-held weapons, but weapons nonetheless. They pointed them at Maska, and screamed for the Space Marine to drop his gun.
An Imperial boltgun is a wondrous thing. Beautiful in design, sleek in function, ornate in appearance, the weapon fires a self-propelled .75 caliber shell that explodes microseconds after impact—just enough microseconds to allow the projectile to bury itself in the target before its violent detonation. The gun’s magazines hold thirty such rounds in a banana clip. The first round from Maska’s clip tore into the clergyman’s chest, flinging him backward. A nanosecond later the round exploded, leaving nothing but a gaping hole where the chest had been, flinging blood, bone, and grizzle.
And then the killing began.
As one the dark-suited men fired on Maska, their weapons cracking flatly, impotently. Sparks flew from Maska’s chest, but the pistols had no more chance of penetrating Maska’s power armor than a thrown pebble. Beside him now, Maska’s brothers rose, and bedlam reigned. Boltguns boomed, speaking rapidly, destroying completely. Stallings stood, screaming at Westanof, but then Liberator was in Westanof’s hand, whirring hungrily. For the briefest instant he wondered, Must I do this? But then Liberator was into the Secretary’s belly, and Westanof pulled it toward the heavens, eviscerating the man from waist to neck. Stallings fell like a sack of Catachen rice.
And then it was over.
As quickly as it had begun, the firing stopped. Someone groaned, a boltgun boomed, and the moaning ceased. The air reeked of cordite and the coppery scent of blood. The Space Marine’s hosts lay strewn among the food they offered. Here a large, red melon had burst, staining the ground crimson. There a skull had been exploded, its blood mixing with the red fruit.
“Report,” barked Westanof, any concern for the civilians they had slaughtered buried under years of training.
“Brother Wakiza is down,” answered Maska.
He lay at the end of the long leg of the table. The squad’s Apothecary, Brother Paytah, clearly visible in his white power armor, knelt beside the supine form. Westanof brushed aside Maska, strode twice, and knelt beside Paytah. Wakiza was most assuredly down, down and dead, a dark red hole below his right eye marking where the one of the dark-suited men’s bullets had entered. A blob of jellied, bloodied brain, flecked with bits of bone, formed a gruesome halo on the grass beneath the skull, marking where the bullet had exited.
Without a word, Apothecary Paytah pulled the extractor from his hip and pressed it to the port on the dead Space Marine’s chest. The extractor hissed, and its vile filled with a pulpy, red swirl—Wakiza’s gene seed, the essence of a Space Marine. The gene seed would be used to alter another Space Marine candidate. It was the greatest honor they could give the dead Space Marine.
Westanof didn’t mourn. The time for mourning came later. He could not help Wakiza, but could keep the same from happening to his other men. He stood.
“We’re going back to the Thunderhawk. Maska take point. Helmets on, bolters at the ready.” Westanof thought of the military base they had overflown, the base that was not two kilometers distant. “It’s gonna get hot.”
****
And hot it got. Out of the gates and into the truck they piled, Maska shooting two more dark-suited men who sprinted toward them at the entrance gate. Both blew apart when the .75 caliber shells exploded in their chests.
A block or two passed without incident, if racing down a crowded street, dodging vehicles and screaming civilians could be labeled as “without incident.” In block three the incidents came. Two vehicles, black and white, lights flashing, caromed out of a side street. Westanof glanced at Maska, not that he could see anything but the other marine’s visored helmet, and spoke, his Micro-Bead carrying the single word, “Arbites.”
Maska nodded. The Arbites were the Imperium’s police, and that was exactly what these appeared to be. The two vehicles skidded to a stop, and four armed, uniformed men jumped out. Unlike the Imperium’s police, these men were unarmored and carried handguns similar to those wielded by the dark-suited men. Nothing to threaten the now fully armored Space Marines.
Brother Yanisin drove the truck, and his voice crackled in Westanof’s earpiece. “Orders Sergeant?”
“Through them, Yanisin.” Beside Westanof, Brother Vipponoa’s bolt gun stuttered and the shells ripped into the left vehicle, stitching a line from the front to rear, one struck the fuel tank and the car exploded, just seconds before Vipponoa struck the others' fender, spinning it out of the way. A glance back revealed one car in flames, one car crumpled, and several burning lumps of flesh. The Arbites, Westanof guessed. He didn’t have long to guess about it.
No more than a hundred meters distant, a light armored vehicle rolled to stop behind a bright yellow civilian van. The enemy's turret rotated, seeking Westanof and his men. The first of the planetary defense force, Westanof realized. It was inevitable.
"Get that," ordered Westanof through his Micro-Bead. Vipponoa's bolt gun spat the remainder of its clip, as Westanof picked off a soldier firing at them from behind a stone bench. More of the enemy’s rounds zipped through the air, the sound not unlike a hive of angry bees.
Vipponoa's rounds sparked off the armored car's turret, clanging above the din, but doing little except chipping the vehicle's dark green paint. The armored car's stubby gun responded, its projectiles tearing fist-sized chunks out of the pavement, as the gunner walked its death toward the truck.
"Out, out!" screamed Westanof. The marines leapt from the truck, their heavily armored bodies striking the road surface hard, the joint tensioners preventing damage to men or armor. An instant later the gunner found his mark, a spat of rounds ripping into the truck’s engine, still others glancing off the bonnet, piercing the windshield, and ripping into Brother Yanisin.
The truck careened into a clothing store on the opposite side of the street, collapsing the brick facing and shattering the glass. The door opened and Yanisin fell out, blood weeping from several holes in his torso, an arm severed at the shoulder. Westanof wanted to help, needed to help, but the armored car still ruled the street, its fire ravening the Space Marines’ position.
Akondo, the squad’s heavy weapons specialist, rose from behind a car. On his shoulder rested the squad’s missile launcher. Maska pointed at the enemy armor and a second later a missile leapt from the launcher, the motor trailing a thin finger of smoke. The flight took but a second, and the missile struck the turret, blowing it off the car in a man-sized ball of flame. A crewman crawled from the chassis, and Maska shot him dead.
Westanof stood, tensing to dash to Yanisin’s aid. The grievously wounded Space Marine lay unmoving on the street. Before Westanof could make a step, a small black object arced to the asphalt bounced once, and came to rest beside Yanisin. Grenade! The small bomblet exploded with a flat crack and Yanisin died. A fusillade of fire from the Space Marine squad ended the thrower’s life.
The ensuing silence raised the hair on Westanof’s neck. The Apothecary sprinted to Yanisin’s side, a brief examination, followed by a shake of head. Maska appeared next to Westanof as the Apothecary removed the gene extractor from its holster. The remaining Space Marines covered the deserted street.
“It appears these humans mean us ill.” The word humans slid off Maska’s tongue like bile.
Westanof surveyed the street. Abandoned civilian transports littered the way, smoke from armored car drifted from the smoldering wreckage, bodies, clothed in the gray-black camouflage uniforms their newfound enemies favored, lay where they had fallen.
At last he nodded, “you are correct, but then again, Brother Maska, what would you do if strangers from space landed on your planet and massacred your leaders?”
“That is not what happened,” Maska barked. “They are heathen, heretics, alien.”
Westanof held up his hand, gesturing Maska to silence. “Agreed. That is not our view, but is it thers?”
“Their view matters not,” Maska hissed.
Westanof nodded again. Maska was right. In a universe torn by war there was no room for differing opinions. There was the Emperor’s way, or there was death.
“Either way, my brother, it isn’t our immediate concern. Let’s get off this cursed Earth before we lose any one else.”
Westanof stood and strode down the street, gesturing for his squad to follow, sure of his duty, unsure of the reason.
****
“Four of them, Brother Sergeant.” Vipponoa’s voice was relaxed, clear as a bell, his Micro-Bead link strong. Yet the news he conveyed was dark, foreboding. “Single, large caliber gun, flat viper-head like turret, also thirty to thirty-five infantry.”
“Squad, to cover.” Westanof watched the surviving members of his team peal to the edges of the street, seeking cover among the cars, stone benches, and recessed doors. They had landed with ten. Wakiza had been killed by the dark-suited men, Yanisin by the armored car’s stubby gun, and a block back a sniper’s bullet had ended Brother Elsu’s life. A very large bullet, Westanof guessed at least .50 caliber. Large enough to blow through Elsu’s helmet, and explode his head. Now there were seven, and now, according to Brother Vipponoa, there were enemy tanks, four to be exact.
Westanof peered over the edge of the stone planter behind which he had chosen to fight. Out of the planter grew a thick-trunked, broad-leafed tree. His helmet optics revealed nothing, but Vipponoa hid at least 100 meters in front of the squad. The tanks would reveal themselves soon enough. Maska slid into Westanof’s firing position and keyed his Micro-Bead.
“Akando has three missiles.”
For a moment Westanof peered down the street, long and wide, yet choked with automobiles. No doubt there was plenty of cover, but cover alone couldn’t defeat enemy armor. Three men were down. How many more might he lose bullying through the armor? He made his decision. It was time to extract, time to get the off this Emperor-forsaken planet and let the Valiant decide the matter for them.
“That won’t be enough to fight through this armor. Not even if he gets one per missile. The Thunderhawk will have to meet us here.” Beside him, Maska nodded his agreement.
“Get back to Akando, make sure each missile counts.” I’ll call the Hawk.
****
He saw the first tank, large, yet low slung and lethal, painted in mottled, gray camouflage, advancing slowly, its turret rotating purposefully, methodically searching for targets. The infantry advanced alongside, dressed in gray-black camouflaged fatigues and helmets sporting imagers clipped to the brim. They advanced not brainlessly like Chaos cultists, or eagerly like bloodthirsty Orks, but intelligently, professionally. A handful of infantry would dart from one firing position to the next, flat black assault rifles tucked to their shoulders, while others covered their advance. These opponents were not new to war, of that Westanof was sure.
Westanof’s communications link hissed, and then the Thunderhawk’s pilot spoke into his ear. “ETA three minutes. One engine out, have asked Valiant for support. Taking ground fire.”
Glanced skyward, but of course there was no sign of the Thunderhawk yet. Again his earpiece spoke. “Engaging.” It was Maska, from the far side of the street, spotting for Brother Akando and the Krak missile launcher.
“Proceed,” replied Westanof. The Krak missile jumped from the tube, the launcher motor throwing the missile three meters, the missile’s tail sagging until the engine ignited with a boom. The flight was short, no more than three seconds, and then the missile struck the lead tank squarely on the front of the turret, exploding in a viciously loud ball of flame.
Loud, but ineffective.
The strike scored the tank’s armor, leaving a black scar where the missile detonated, but the beast still advanced, its turret swinging to engage Maska and Akando. The enemy infantry had taken cover and their rifles spewed a hail of lead. Westanof heard the rounds buzz like angry insects, saw their puffing clouds of dust as they chewed the building face on his left. His helmet’s enhanced olfactory sensors flooded Westanof with the reek of cordite.
The tank’s gun spoke, and Maska’s position exploded. Maska, however, was no longer there. Westanof spotted the back of the two Marine’s dark green armor as they ducked into the adjacent building.
The battle was fully joined now, Brothers Nahele, Vipponoa, Chaman, and Apothecary Paytah, fighting for their lives. Their boltguns stuttering death, their armor sparking as the self-named Earthling’s smaller caliber rifle bullets ricocheted off the metal. Amid the cacophony a larger gun chattered. Westanof’s targeting sensors immediately highlighted a light Stubber-analogy. Balanced on a bipod, its barrel just peaking through a pile of unused construction materials, the gun burped again.
“Nahele’s down,” yelled the Apothecary. In his peripheral vision Westanof saw Paytah sprinting toward the stricken marine.
Westanof’s sights settled on the Stubber-analogy, and he squeezed off the remainder of his clip. The construction materials disintegrated into a cloud of dust as a stream of .75 caliber explosive shells tore into them. The enemy Stubber spoke no more.
A second tank now rose behind the first, and once again the first’s canon spoke, the explosion opening a small crater in the street. A crater centered on where, but a heartbeat before, the Apothecary had knelt at Nahele’s side. He knelt no more. Now there was no more Nahele, no more Apothecary Paytah. Now there was only a smoking crater. Rage boiled in Westanof.
A missile streaked from the second floor of the building across the street.
Maska!
Impacting the thinly armored top of the viper-like turret, the missile pierced the metal, entered the fighting compartment, and exploded. Flames gushed from the turret’s hatch, and the metal monster skidded to a halt. Westanof tracked it for a second, two seconds, but no one attempted to escape, no one had survived.
“On approach.” The Thunderhawk’s pilot’s voice spoke to Westanof.
Before he could reply, the second tank’s cannon boomed, and Maska’s building collapsed.
“Maska?” Westanof queried.
Quiet. Dust. Squeaking tank treads.
“Maska?”
Coughing, and then a voice.
“Here, Sergeant. I’m injured, but functional. Akando is down. Exiting now.”
Westanof spotted Maska crawling from the rubble, the right side of his armor painted with bright red blood. As he watched, three soldiers, their gray-black camouflage clear against the tan cloud of powder that had been the building, rushed Maska. Brother Chaman rose and cut them down with a short burst from his boltgun, the shells flinging their bodies like rag dolls against the crumpled wall of the building.
A flash brightened the sky, a thunderous explosion hot on its heels. Westanof ducked as a chest-sized chunk of shrapnel whirred by, buzzing like a mini roto-copter, and embedded itself in the wall of the building behind him. A glance down the street revealed the second tank engulfed in flames, a glance overhead revealed the Thunderhawk passing by, the barrels of its ventral plasma gun still cherry red. Tracers chased the bird, and Westanof watched as several blew fist-sized chunks from the assault ship’s fuselage.
Ignoring the damage, the pilot set the assault ship down amid a tumultuous cloud of dust and flames from the brake thrusters. Westanof didn’t need a written invitation. He stood, snapping his final clip into the boltgun.
“Squad! On me!”
Vipponoa and Chaman moved like spiders across the rubble-strewn street, tracers from the remaining enemy infantry ineffectual against their speed and armor. The three Space Marines assumed firing positions, providing covering fire for the obviously injured, and considerably slower, Maska.
The Thunderhawk’s turbo-laser hissed to life, the twin bolts of energy impossibly bright and brilliantly blue. Another tank exploded, its turret flipping through the smoke.
“For the Emperor!” shouted Chaman, but the victory was short lived. The trailing tank’s cannon cracked, and the turbo-laser erupted in a ball of flame.
“Get on!” The pilot shouted, his calm demeanor fraying.
“Move it,” Westanof barked. Vipponoa helped Maska toward the waiting ramp. Westanof squeezed off three rounds at a Stubber-analogy that had popped up on the right side of the street. Chaman heaved a grenade at a cluster of enemy soldiers firing from behind a small cargo vehicle. It exploded in mid air, showering the soldiers with shrapnel, two went down, but third fired a burst in return.
“Now!”
Westanof tossed a yellow-topped smoke grenade, and the two ran for the Thunderhawk, their adversaries’ bullets shadowing them with amazing accuracy despite the gray cloud behind them. Westanof remembered the external imagers on the Earthling’s helmets and cursed the heretic’s technology. Thermals! Yet none of the smaller caliber bullets harmed them, and fifteen seconds later the Thunderhawk was airborne.
****
“Interesting.” Westanof stood on the Valiant’s bridge, Captain Demothi to one side, Commodore Frankuh on the other. The Commodore was an imposing figure, heavily muscled, cybernetically augmented, impatient, and aggressive.
The flight back had been as arduous as the struggle on the planet’s surface. The company had lost two of their valuable Thunderhawks, and the enemy at least as many of their sleek war birds, but at last Westanof’s Thunderhawk had reached the Valiant, where they were safe from the heretic’s attacks. At least that is what they had thought.
In front of the three hovered the holograph of the usurper’s planet. About it still orbited the satellites all had seen before, but now many of the satellites were maneuvering, closing on the cruiser.
“These satellites mean us harm. If there were any debate before, this most certainly eliminates it,” spoke Commodore Frankuh, his speech augmenter giving his voice a throaty mechanical timber. “I’ve ordered the prow torpedoes armed with fusion bombs. It will take no more than two. We will cleanse this world with the Emperor’s fire.” His mechanical eye purred softly as it flicked from Westanof to Demothi. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’m not so sure,” began Westanof.
“How can you not be sure?” thundered the Commodore.
“A moment, please.” Demothi held up a quieting hand, ever the voice of reason. “Let’s listen to what Brother Westanof has to say. He has, after all, met these aliens face to face.”
Westanof nodded. “It is true this world does not pledge its allegiance to the Emperor.”
“Then let us end its miserable existence,” interrupted Frankuh.
“But neither did we see any signs of Chaos. Nor did the inhabitants, civilians or soldiers, appear to be under the Dark Lord’s spell. They fought hard, but they fought with honor. And they are, by all accounts, humans. They are not alien.”
A technician, one of the Adeptus Mechanicus, more machine than man, spoke from his control station. “Torpedoes one and two ready to fire on your command, Commodore”
Commodore Frankuh nodded. Westanof pursed his lips. Both he and Demothi knew that although the Commodore would listen to their council, the ship, its weapons systems, and the final decision were his.
Demothi spoke first. “Would it hurt to speak with them, demand their surrender, explain what will happen if they fail to comply?”
The Commodore didn’t answer, instead turning to one of the bridge technicians. “Open a communication channel with the aliens.”
The pictograph flashed to life, filling most of the forward bulkhead. A stern-faced man peered from it, his haircut so short as to be barely visible. He wore a khaki uniform, three stars on his collar. He uttered but one word. “Speak.”
“Enemy satellites one thousand kilometers,” the technician injected quietly, his voice audible only through the Micro-Beads the three men wore.
Frankuh’s jaw muscle twitched. Then he addressed the khaki-clad figure. “We are sent from the Emperor of Man, the God Emperor, benefactor of all mankind, he who protects men from aliens, from heretics.”
The face on the screen remained expressionless.
Frankuh continued. “You have two choices. Swear fealty to our God Emperor or die in his cleansing fire.”
And then the face smiled. “No sir, I think we have a third,” and the picture vanished.
Three seconds later, the sensor technician announced the launch of 63 missiles from the closing satellites. A scant minute after the launch the Valiant, its collapsed void shields, and the just launched fusion torpedoes evaporated in a ball of nuclear fire that would turn night into day on Trinidad and Cinquanto, and burn like a second sun in Earth’s sky.
Just like the priest’s amulet.
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