Word: 2600

The 143rd

Vander McLeod

Three-days of rejuvenation, three-days since I faced the foul claws and teeth of monstrous beasts. Three-days since I watched my commander being torn to pieces and devoured by unimaginable terrors. Three-days of peace is a lifetime in the harsh reality of the Invictus Empire. To live is to fight.

I wake to sirens blaring; a noise I am accustomed to.

“Black alert, action-stations,” the PA projects. This time the speakers echo throughout rusty corridors, on board our barely held together frigate. Servitors rumble through, passing corridors, fixing, modifying machinery, or equipping the boys I serve with.

There are six of us, now only six. We started two-months ago with a division, 150 fighting men. Two-weeks ago we were down to troop strength, a messily twenty-four strong platoon among the void. We lost eight on our last-op, just days ago, a day before our three-days of silence.

Witnessing the colonel, and the commissar end badly, gave shivers down our backs. There was something about seeing the most seasoned of us, being transformed into mush that just didn’t settle well. One lieutenant simply cracked and kamikazed; another shot himself; something extremely rare among my kind. Savage training and living conditions indoctrinated a mind of cold steel, and a heart of blazing fire. My kind, my corps, proud to be, a Marine Battle Corps of the Invictus Empire. Sanguinem luto.

It was unusual for us, to be chosen for such a classified and specialist mission, an operation that one would imagine being given to Para-Commandos, or even, the Angels of Man. But here we were, two dreaded months into what of those that remained, believed a suicide mission. Mor certa, hora incenta. But who were we to question the Will of the Imperator. If death was deemed, then by the Imperator, I will give it, though one wish I care for, that I take with me as many heretics as humanly possible. Two-months in Hell, a lifetime of grim. What was expected next from us? for this prolonged operation has taken us from facing heretics on an asteroid, to monstrous creatures on the vast tundra, to the giant volcanic fires of mount Albadron. I pray, I will not give my life for nothing, instead to give it for something.

I’m a mere man, a twenty-year marine veteran. I’ve known nothing but blood, dirt and dust. Beside me is my humble Las-rifle; yet to fail me. Inferno or Obliterator, it may not be, but red hot las it has bestowed upon countless. With bayonet attached, even infidel armour will fail; and if things get real bad, I have my trusted hammer, ready to skull crush, though most importantly, faith and the good book.

Boots on, bayonet fixed, respirator rigged; it was time to dive, dive head first yet again into the unknown. The encrypted computer message simply stated a set of coordinates. No mention of mission, no word of what threat to expect. Beware let you fall. Was it an extraction or a hit? Who even sent us on this Black-Op? These were questions the few of us that remained didn’t know, not even our sergeant or so he says. If anyone knew where our mission came from and even what our final objective was, then it was the colonel, and unfortunately, intel likely died with him.

Among us, now leading our short-section is Sergeant Argyle, a man of will, a warrior of aggression and raw seasoning. I once saw him stand toe to toe with an Growgan Orc Kommando and win, though losing his eye and arm during the brawl, now replaced with a mechanical arm and somewhat cybernetic eye. He preferred close-quarter combat, he got kicks out of facing the infidel eye to eye, fusion-sword and Obliterator pistol to claw and tooth. He is a man of few words; rugged with large scars down his face and body, scars he wears with pride. Even the now deceased commissar appreciated him, for his talent and heart for combat.

Luscious is our medic; he was one of four medical men when deployed, but now, our section is restrained to Sergeant Argyle, McGowan, our demolitions man; Oxford, comms, Gramus, the special weapons lad and myself, Father Nicholas, a chaplain marine, known among my men as the exorcist; I’m only 5’9” and 90kg, though whispered by shadows among the ranks, they say “murderous artist.”

Luscious is a smart man, some say, a noble. We all were smart, streetwise anyhow, though he was an academic, a surgeon from the Imperial Collage. We pondered why was a noble, a surgeon, present among our class, a man of medicine and blue blood fighting among our ranks. Whispers rumoured he was here as punishment, or seeking redemption for crimes even his kind were not immune to. Or perhaps he was just seeking adventure, the deadly kind, the kind where he’d get to operate substantially. His toffery was obvious, yet there was no snobbery coating him, no hint of snideness. He was one of the boys, and his dry posh humour often cracked us up.

All-set, our new objective came closer, a derelict battleship, an ancient vessel previously home to the Angels of Man. Through our frigate’s large glass, an eeriness oozed from the dead-ship that neared. Something about it made my gut tighten, an unholiness. How long had it swam among the stars, unoccupied? The signs of battle were clear upon its Triluxinum armour. Who or what awaited us inside? I didn’t recognise the insignia engraved upon the ship’s walls; I knew of the tales of the siege of Kradious, of the Gammatron Fist, but this insignia was new to me – a tiger covered coated with laurels.

Bump – our two ships connect. A roaring yawn of cold-steel echoes as our ships grind and fuse. We look to the sergeant, awaiting his call-to-arms. He nods, then our Las-rifles lock and load. Quick pouch and gear check, everything a-ok. We awaited at doors while Oxford, the comms chap, initiated override. Hacked-in, the console’s green blurry screen digitises, then scrapping occurs seconds later as the gigantic battle-barge doors began to open.

“In extremis,” says Oxford to oneself.

A foul smell smacks us, penetrating our respirators, we chock on the stench. Thick dust makes visibility difficult; our torches shine down the long dark corridors, but shadows play tricks with us, though this kind of atmosphere is something we’re used to in the trenches and wastelands of Kradious.

“Leave one dust bowl behind for another,” says McGowan, the demo-specialist, as he sets a booby-trap near the door, using trip-wire. “The 143rd can leave the dust, but the dust never leaves the 143rd. At least it’ll conceal my traps.”

“Works both ways,” says Sergeant Argyle. “Guns and eyeballs lads.”

“End up getting shot or blown apart by the ship’s internal-defensives,” I say to myself. “Oxford?”

“Don’t worry guys; I’ve disarmed the battle-bridges sentries. If somethings going to kill us, it’ll be the enemy,” replies Oxford.

“Aye, but turning them off, will that no make it easier for any beasties to get about on board. Can yea no just hack-in and have the guns identify us a friendlies? wee-man,” says Gramus, the specialist, armed with combat shotgun and flamer.

“If it were that easy dumbo, would I not have done it? Just focus on being the point-man, you buffoon,” says Oxford.

The dust starts to settle, then we come upon long deep halls, with armoured doors running along throughout.

“Sensors indicate no hazardous fumes or canisters. Gramus, should be fine to imitate room clearing,” states Oxford.

Sergeant Argyle points his finger, then Gramus begins giving off flamer bursts. Long fireballs whisk along corridors, burning web and wood, and blacken the decretive thick walls. As the youngest man among us, Gramus is twenty-five, still, ancient among our kind, especially in such dark-times. Most are lucky to make twenty. He’s a bit of a wildcard, still, he follows orders and puts the section first, though he can get a head of himself, risking his meat and bone without second thought. Some may say reckless, though others would say, barrel balls.

“Coordinates indicates our objective is five-floors below. Approximately 3000 meters to POC,” states Oxford.

“Make haste, danger in delay,” states Sergeant Argyle to Oxford.

Oxford is no simple stat-man; great with all sorts of communication devices and proficient in hacking various systems. A good soldier, though a bit boring, well, unless you find talking about radio-waves and binary fascinating.

“No sign on life,” murmurs Doctor Luscious. “Devoid. If corpses riddled, then somehow it’d make things less unwelcoming.”

“Ex nihilo nihil fit,” says Sergeant Argyle to Dr Luscious as he marches near Gramus; as the most seasoned man, he stayed at the front, next to Gramus, while Gramus clears the way via fire. As number-two, I protect the rear, bayonet attached and gun barrel flying the plane. Where my eyes go, my las follows.

Sometime later, what felt like hours, we arrived at great big doors, locked ones.

“It’s no good, even my skills are limited,” says Oxford. “These encryptions are at levels above my pay-grade. It’ll take me sometime to bypass, at least, it’s been awhile since I was truly tested. Aperiet aedificium.”

McGowan steps forward, pushing Oxford aside while waving a high-explosive device in Oxford’s mush.

“I’ve got this geek boy,” says McGowan.

The rest of us get back, taking cover while McGowan rigs the bomb.

“Not to worry, won’t be any back-lash troops. Nice little modification, and woopeedoo, a mine transforms into a breach-bomb,” states McGowan.

Seconds later, kaboom. The electronics disarm and the giant doors begin to slide, ever so slightly.

“At least they’re open,” says McGowan, peering at the foot-wide gap the doors made until they cranked to a still.

Sergeant Argyle examines the entry point – his thoughts look heavy. I too don’t fancy those doors closing behind me, once entered.

Oxford takes out his flare gun and fires. “Fiat lux,” red illuminum partially brightens the massive hall that stands opposite us, yet, the sheer size makes it difficult to see what lies within.

Gramus steps in, giving a few bursts of his fire thrower.

“Be ready for anything,” says Argyle, his Obliterator pistol patient and fingers squeezing off a few bursts of his fusion-sword.

“Allow me,” I say, as I push forward, bayonet ready. I venture into the terra incognita, the darkness where shadows flicker and red flare glares briefly upon wall and overhead platform.

A few meters pass as I march vigilantly. My breath steady and deep, my thoughts clear and focused and my las set to spray 500 degree burning crimson heat. A few more meters into the deep dark depth of the hall, and I see it, ever so slightly, yet ever so magnificent. A massive Goliath stands tall a-front, a great massive red triluxium tomb, with large tiger strips as insignia. The words, Sanguinary engraved upon it. A beautiful sight, a view few are gifted with, the sight of the Star Crusaders, and not just any Crusader – a Grimm Reaper, a machine housing an Angel of Death, a Star Crusader, the finest soldiers of the Invictus Empire. This machine was a tomb, for the angel inside was once critical injured in his millennia of service, and this great machine, now kept him alive, ready to fight once more.

The grimm reaper however slept, the warrior inside unaware of my presence. Was this our mission objective, was finding this venerable instrument of death the task that was bestowed upon us?

It took me a moment, as I couldn’t take my eyes away, my gaze fixated, my mind in aww. Stupid, something that could get me killed; I snap out of it and inform my men to enter.

Oxford immediately set about trying to sort lighting out, while Gramus secured the door. The looks of Sergeant Argyle, Doctor Luscious and specialist McGowan were obvious, even under their respirators.

Luscious was the first to speak, “got my work cut out for me. A Crusader, prise the Imperator, that I am gifted with seeing to helping the finest specimens in existence.”

“This is the exact coordinates sergeant,” says Oxford, pointing directly at the machine, in a tone of sublimeness. “Lights are fubar – will need to continue trusting our torches sergeant.”

“Copy that. McGowan. Oxford, do what you can to get the reaper operational. Doctor, be ready to apply yourself. The angels are different from us.”

“Yes sergeant, super-human, bio and cyber implants, though I trust my skill,” replies Luscious.

“Your orders sergeant?” I say.

“Continue securing the AO, father, but stay close.”

Boooommmm, an enormous kaboom, followed by a crack filled the chambers outside.

“Tripwire sergeant,” says Gramus. “200 meters downrange.”

“Oxford, McGowan, Luscious, continue working on the dread. Nicholas, you’re with me,” says Argyle.

Gramus, Argyle and I move into defensive positions securing the door entry. We stand-ready behind makeshift barricades made of steel tables and containers. My Las-rifle points in the direction of the ruckuses, ready to let rip at whatever ungodly abomination was stupid enough to move into our kill-box. Mines were laid previously by McGowan and vibration sensors installed by Oxford. Gramus’es flamer was ready to burst and the sergeant’s 70.cal pistol cocked.

Whatever set off the trip-wires was still out there, somehow still alive, as the vibration sensors started to ping.

“Lupus in fabula, and I love it,” says Gramus.

Moments later soul marching dawns, creeping closer and closer to our kill-box. The ground rumbled; clearly something heavy, something huge was making its way towards us, something tough enough to withstand twenty-pounds of high explosives, ordnance strong enough to destroy an Eradicator battle tank.

Five-meters away, yet still in the darkness, came the laugher of something sinister, something that knew we were waiting, something unafraid. The laughter grew, deeper and louder, then its voice, the voice of heresy.

“Soldiers of the false God, you docked the wrong ship, a grave mistake. Your last mistake. Now, you will suffer, dearly at the hands of Galan’ive.”

Burst, without hesitation, Gramus lets rip his flamer. A long streak of orange death engulfs the corridor ahead. Sprinkles of black armour flicker under sheer fire, though the beast stands tall, unflinching. Moments later, black smoke floats.

“Hahahahahahaha,” laughs again the monster that is Galan’ive.

“Pathetic sub-human weaponry,” says the voice. Gramus quickly transitions, then lets shotgun shells fly, but boom. An explosive shell rattles through the air, cracking off the wall nearby Gramus, blasting and knocking Gramus several feet. Gramus lands hard, yet alive.

Something told me the shot was a miss on purpose, for this demon, this monster of a man wanted to play with us.

“Stand-fast father. Let the bastard come!” says Sergeant Argyle as his fusion sword’s heat is felt, he cracks off roars from his hand cannon.

“Mors inceptum,” I murmur to oneself. Crack, I too let rip, a hot stream of red illuminum.

The beast finally steps out from the shadows, partially viewed as red las and explosive rounds crack uselessly off tank-like-armour; a giant black rhino looking helm peeks into the light. Crusader I thought for a mere-moment, power armour, but I knew it was not the Crusaders we knew. This fella was a heretic, a traitor Crusader, hostis humani generis. A Fog Crusader.