"You don't need to thank me," said Phoros, kneeling to meet the girl's gaze. His voice, filtered through the low rumble of his helmet's vox-emitter, carried a surprising gentleness that seemed out of place in the grim corridors around them. "What's your name?"
"Tessa," the girl replied, her voice barely above a whisper, thin and fragile like a candle flame fighting the dark.
Phoros nodded. Even through his visor's red glow, there was the sense of a faint smile. "Alright, Tessa. We'll do everything we can to keep those monsters out, but you have to take care of yourself and your sister. Stay close, and don't fall behind."
"I understand." Her reply came quicker this time, a spark of courage returning. Tessa nodded vigorously, and a faint, fleeting smile returned to her pale, dirt-streaked face.
After a brief respite beneath the broken glowpanels, the group pressed onward.
The blast doors at both ends of the corridor had been sealed off, but there was still a hidden hatch on the wall, almost invisible in the dim light. Phoros found it by touch alone, his armored fingers sliding across the groove with practiced familiarity. He opened it skillfully and led the group into another hallway.
The stale air of the new corridor was thick with dust and the scent of old machine oil. Dim lumen strips flickered overhead, struggling to remain alive like the rest of this forsaken world.
The entire underground city was like a maze, with a fork every few steps, none of them marked. Yet, Phoros always seemed to know the right way. He didn't just guide them forward; he also made sure to check every room where survivors might still be hiding.
Their only stroke of fortune, beyond Phoros's guidance, was that no Poxwalkers had attacked them recently. Perhaps they had been contained in the other corridors.
"Cap-Brother Phoros, you seem quite familiar with this place?" The Thunderborn asked, stepping up beside him.
"I grew up in a city like this," Phoros said, glancing around. "These underground cities are like massive dormitories built below ground. When the surface became uninhabitable, radiation, bombardment, or worse they built downward instead of up. I suspect that cities like this were once large military barracks, built ages ago."
Hearing this, the Thunderborn also looked around and had to agree, it really did seem just as Phoros had said.
Though the place had been worn down by time, and the corridor walls were riddled with patches, the structure clearly resembled a military installation. Even the airlocks and conduits suggested design efficiency rather than comfort. This was never meant to be a home. It was meant to be defended.
"There's an underground factory on a hive world in the Talon system," the Thunderborn muttered. "It was supposedly built for manufacturing giant war machines. And this place looks like a barracks..."
The Thunderborn furrowed his brow, thoughts racing. Something about these two places felt... connected.
Before he could pursue the thought further, the howling of Poxwalkers shattered the silence. The echoes rolled through the tunnels, growing louder, closer, until the air itself seemed to vibrate with madness. More and more of them poured in from all directions, like a relentless tide of rot and rage.
Though eleven Emperor's Angels and a Thunderborn stood guard, the civilians still trembled in fear. Tessa, however, gripped the dagger in her hand despite her terror. The Astartes blade was far too heavy for her to wield, but even so, just holding it gave her a sense of safety.
"Keep moving! I'll hold them off!" the Thunderborn shouted, his voice booming through the corridors like thunder incarnate, charging toward the direction opposite their path, where the horde of undead was densest.
Phoros wanted to stop him but had no choice, there was no time. In the heat of the moment, he turned back to protect the civilians, firing at the Plague Zombies ahead to blast open a corridor-wide path, while glancing back at the Thunderborn.
The Thunderborn was already engulfed by the wave of undead. Poxwalkers even crawled out from under the floors and through the ventilation shafts, yet none could reach him. As soon as they entered the range of his gravity shield, they were crushed instantly.
The sounds echoed through the underhalls, metal shrieks, bone snaps, and the wet crunch of corrupted flesh pulverized by invisible force. It was a dreadful symphony, made worse by the confined acoustics of the tunnels. But it was also a song of resistance.
On a normal battlefield, no enemy would dare charge a Thunderborn.
But these creatures knew no fear. And no souls left to lose.
"All of you, come at me!" the Thunderborn roared, his voice distorted by the feedback of his suit's speakers until it sounded almost divine, or demonic. He raised his arms, blasting the creatures in wide arcs. His shoulder-mounted cannon spun rapidly, firing beams of lasbolt that vaporized the acidic goo spat by some of the Poxwalkers.
Eventually, the Thunderborn smashed through a wall with kinetic force, vanishing into a storm of claws and screams, luring the swarm in another direction.
Phoros turned back to the fight, leading his men through the carnage, pushing forward while continuing to check every room for survivors.
....
The rescue mission lasted four days and four nights.
Civilians couldn't keep up with the pace or stamina of the Astartes, but that didn't mean Phoros was willing to leave them behind. So he cleared out a safe zone and left his men to guard it, while he ventured deeper into the underground city alone, searching.
But he never found another survivor.
Only echoes, bones, and rot.
Then, on the fifth day, when all hope seemed gone, Phoros saw the person he most wanted to see, the Thunderborn who had held off the Poxwalkers for so long.
He emerged from a corridor opposite Phoros. Not a speck of blood stained his golden-black frame, though the laser weapons on his arms were deformed from continuous firing.
"There's no one left alive here," the Thunderborn said as he walked past Phoros, deactivating his gravity shield. The field's faint shimmer collapsed, leaving only silence.
"I was thinking... maybe we should—"
"I've got combat logs of every area I searched these past days. You can review them if you want to verify."
The Thunderborn played the footage and removed his helmet, handing it to Phoros.
Phoros trusted him, but he couldn't help the bitter taste in his mouth.
This world had held billions of lives… and they had saved less than a ten-millionth of a percent.
Their gene-seed hardened their flesh, not their hearts. The weight of failure was not something they could purge in battle.
A crushing sense of powerlessness swept over Phoros, just like the time, decades ago, when he watched his flagship get destroyed by the Minotaur Chapter. The memory burned fresh now, a scar behind his stoic demeanor.
"You're an angel, not a god," the Thunderborn said, gently placing a hand on Phoros's shoulder. "You saved over two hundred people. And those two hundred will carry the story of how the Emperor's Angels descended from the heavens to rescue them."
Phoros was silent for a long moment before replying, "The Emperor's Angels descend and rescue just two hundred people from a world of billions. Is that an honor... or a disgrace?"
"Maybe," the Thunderborn said as he quickened his pace, "you didn't come to save billions. Maybe you came to save the last two hundred people on a world overrun by plague, with no way to call for help."
Phoros hated that he didn't have a retort. Hated that some part of him needed the words to be true.
He picked up his pace as well, walking with him back to the Astartes and the civilians.
With ten well-equipped Astartes protecting them, the civilians were safe. Over the past few days, they'd heard only gunfire and undead screams, but never saw a single monster up close.
When Phoros returned, people were already talking about their hopes for the future.
Tessa and her sister were embraced by a kind, motherly Ecclesiarchy priestess, her robes tattered but her faith unbroken.
"We may have to find a new life in a nearby system," the priestess said softly. "But I won't let you two live on the streets. From today on, I have two more daughters to care for. May the God-Emperor watch over us."
Tessa and her sister clearly knew the priestess already. The other civilians also treated her with respect, she had clearly done a lot for them.
"You're probably heading to Talon," the Thunderborn said as he stepped forward. "Get moving, and take your families. It's by the Emperor's blessing that you'll soon be basking in the mercy of the Lord Talon. Move out!"
Joyfully, the civilians gathered their things and followed the Astartes and Thunderborn out of the underground city, back to the planet's surface.
The sky above, though still tinged by toxic haze, had never looked so beautiful.
After the Thunderborn called for transport, ten shuttles launched from the orbiting battleship to their location.
As the transport ships pierced the atmosphere and descended, the civilians looked up with hopeful eyes, their reflections glowing in the descending fire of the engines.
"Sir… this is yours…" someone said.
Phoros turned to the voice, it was Tessa, holding out the dagger with both hands, offering to return the weapon.
"Thank you for keeping it safe." Phoros knelt and took the dagger from her hands, then turned to the priestess. "Thank you for being willing to care for them. Truly."
"We should be thanking you for saving us," the priestess replied, placing her hand over her chest in the Aquila salute. "I don't have much, but they will have all I can give."
"Thank you," Phoros said, returning the gesture. His voice was quieter now, weighted with something almost human, sorrow and pride intertwined.
The transports landed.
Everyone boarded once the hatches opened. Soldiers in power armor patrolled the cabin with laser rifles, while a white drone floated through the group, scanning each person's body to ensure they weren't infected.
Phoros watched nervously as the drone reached Tessa. It emitted a green scanning beam.
If she was infected...
He couldn't even bear to finish the thought.
But the drone passed by her and her sister without a sound, moving on to the next person.
Phoros exhaled deeply.
Then, the drone stopped next to the priestess, and suddenly sounded an alarm.
Soldiers rushed forward and motioned for her to step into a sealed metal compartment in the corner of the cabin.
"The plague isn't untreatable," one of them said gently. "But you'll have to stay in there for now. Sorry."
The priestess seemed stunned at first, but then nodded quietly. She made a blessing gesture over the girls and calmly walked toward the isolation chamber.
The Thunderborn glanced at Phoros with a sigh. "Maybe the governor will come up with a stronger cure soon."
"If..." Phoros gritted his teeth, "If you didn't have to worry about wars that shouldn't even exist, if those inquisitorial zealots who see heresy in everyone had just gotten out of the way, your fleet wouldn't have to stay on edge in one system, waiting for an enemy that might never come. We could've gotten here sooner."
The Thunderborn had no reply. He looked out the viewport instead, at the endless black of space, where duty and futility were one and the same. Until the Governor was officially appointed by the Imperium, the entire Talon fleet had been locked in a defensive formation, pouring all resources into protecting the system.
"Take me to the next world in this star system," Phoros said over the comms.
His words reached the ship's captain, who replied instantly, "There's no need. The second planet in this system has already been declared lost."
Phoros walked over to the transport's viewing window.
The ship had already left the atmosphere and was approaching the cruiser in orbit. From here, he could see the other planet circling the star.
It was a sickening green now.
Even from orbit, the planet looked infected, diseased, like a corpse left too long in the sun.
"I've been ordered to proceed to the next star system," the captain said. "Someone else will clean up this cesspit."
Phoros didn't respond. He just stood there, one armored hand resting on the dagger at his waist, one of the few things that reminded him he hadn't failed entirely.
Not yet.
.....
If you'd like to support me and read a bit ahead, feel free to check out my Patreon. (https://www.patreon.com/c/Hemont).
Do you like this Novel? Then pls consider supporting me by Commenting or Rating it.
.....