Chapter 4: There is Only Victory!
The sight of the Emperor's Angels had given the soldiers of the 43rd Regiment a much-needed boost in morale.
But through Arthur's enhanced senses, he could tell that these dutiful soldiers were in a poor state, despite their stoic exteriors.
He wasn't blind. Although he personally felt no ill effects from the Warp's influence, he could still perceive the exceptionally intense reality-distortions in this section of the ship.
Because the Ork Rok had torn a massive breach in the Strike Cruiser's outer armor, the threat was no longer confined to the monstrous creatures stalking the corridors.
The relentless corrosion of the Warp permeated every deck, twisting the environment and every living thing within it. Even with the Gellar Field still functioning, the soldiers, exposed to such immense empyrean energies, were inevitably suffering. Many showed signs of mental fatigue and involuntary muscle spasms.
In the more severe cases, visible mutations had already appeared on their skin. In the rear triage station, the armor of the wounded had fused with their flesh, and even the medicae didn't know where to begin. They were ultimately forced to resort to brutal excisions. The horrific sights beneath the cut-away armor plating made even Arthur's transhuman heart ache.
Beyond a vaguely humanoid silhouette, it was difficult to tell that these soldiers were even human anymore.
Worst of all, in the area where the wounded were being treated, the excised body parts did not lose their vitality. Instead, they began to merge with any inorganic matter they touched, growing like cancerous flesh-tumors on the deck plates.
Arthur watched, his face an impassive mask, until a medicae, after finishing with a patient, had to take up a flamer and do battle with the newly-formed growths. Only after confirming the mutated tissue had been reduced to ash did Arthur lower the flamer he had been readying, turning his gaze towards the massive breach in the gantry high above.
If the Ork vessel had penetrated any deeper, the very steel beneath their feet would have likely sprung to life.
He could still hear the battle cries of Imperial forces clashing with the enemy. Not even the howling shriek of a chain-axe could drown out the war shouts of the Emperor's faithful, though there was a hint of desperation in their voices—a defiance born of terror.
If such brief contact could cause such physical corruption, it was hard to imagine the effect this power was having on their minds.
Experiencing the unique cruelty of Warhammer 40,000 firsthand, Arthur's fear of the Warp deepened. At the same time, his respect for the Astra Militarum, who continued to fight in these conditions, grew immensely.
He could only hope these soldiers could recover their strength soon. The success of the coming operation would depend on their ability to hold the line.
As Arthur silently processed the scene, he and Romulus arrived at the temporary command post established within the defensive perimeter. Before they even entered, a woman's voice carried out to them.
"You mean to tell me that, without confirming the enemy's exact numbers, wargear, or deployment, we are to lead our forces on a breakthrough assault to the Gellar Field Generator should we lose contact with the Deathwatch Kill-team?"
The voice was filled with doubt, but it was not born from a fear of battle. It was a protest rooted in a realistic assessment of the situation.
"We should wait for the Ultramarine to return. Under his lordship's command, we can then concentrate the regiment's remaining mobile forces for the assault, securing key junctions along the way to establish a fortified corridor to the generator, one that allows for mutual support between nodes."
"Correct," a Commissar's patient voice replied. "And we would not be sending the entire regiment, but a hand-picked squad of our finest elites under my command. The unconfirmed intelligence is our mission. To give our lives for the Emperor, to have our souls return to the Golden Throne, is a glorious end."
In a place so thoroughly tainted by the malignant power of the Warp, any extreme emotion could be exploited by its denizens. Only cold logic and unwavering faith in the glorious Emperor offered a path to survival. Of course, there were harsh, overbearing commissars who ruled by the threat of summary execution, but that type rarely lasted long in an environment like this.
"But without you, sir, how can the regiment's morale be maintained?" a Canoness asked, her face etched with worry. She had been fighting on the front lines and knew the horrors there all too well.
These battle-hardened soldiers did not fear a straightforward fight against the heretic and the xenos. They would charge forward with their bayonets even if a chainsword was at their neck or if consuming fire engulfed them.
But fighting within the Warp was different. The physical mutations and the constant, maddening whispers in their ears were the greatest challenges to a mortal army's spirit. These were burdens no mortal was ever meant to bear.
"Look around us," the Commissar said, his voice firm. "The maleficence of the Warp gnaws at us with every passing moment. Time is not on our side. If we are to fall, we shall fall charging the enemies of the Emperor." The man's face, half-covered by augmetics, was unreadable, but his eyes burned with grim resolve. They had little time left, and even if they cleared a path and the main force reached the generator, their chances of victory were one in ten thousand.
But it was, quite clearly, the best strategy he could devise.
Sending his soldiers into an unexplored area for close-quarters combat was a dereliction of his duty to protect their lives. But war often forced them to make impossible choices.
"As for the defense of this transit hub, I believe Colonel Kovek is more than capable of fulfilling that duty."
"But—"
WHOOSH~
Arthur and Romulus entered the command center before a runner could announce them, breaking the escalating stalemate.
Under the Warp's influence, all vox-systems had long since devolved into spewing streams of blasphemous code-screams. Command and control had been reduced to the slow, inefficient method of relying on flesh-and-blood messengers. The Astra Militarum were no strangers to high technology; in conventional warfare, their degree of networked information warfare allowed them to conduct seamless joint operations with other Imperial forces. But with the ship's vox-arrays destroyed and its comms overrun by scrap-code, this primitive method was a grim necessity.
Arthur's gaze swept over the assembled command staff, marveling that the chain of command was still intact. His eyes finally rested on the silver-armored Sister of Battle who had just been arguing with the Commissar. Her breastplate bore the emblem of a blooming, sacred rose.
Ah, Order of the Sacred Rose. No wonder she's so rational.
The Order of the Sacred Rose emphasized discipline and the suppression of personal desire. Even the righteous fury so lauded by the Battle-Sisters was, for them, a cold and controlled thing, to be delivered to the Emperor's enemies via bolter and flame. Among the many often-zealous Orders of the Adepta Sororitas, they were among the most reasonable.
"My Lord."
Noticing the Angel of Death's gaze upon her, the Canoness looked down in shame. While her reasons for caution were sound, in the eyes of the Imperium, no reason was ever an excuse to shirk from battle. Sacrifice was never to be feared.
"..."
Arthur gave a slight shake of his head to signal that it was of no consequence, trying to remain silent. His mastery of Low Gothic was still rudimentary. He felt no ill will towards the Sister's caution; after all, the forces of the Ecclesiarchy, who often worked with the Inquisition, understood the Warp far better than a Commissar from the Schola Progenium. Arthur had seen the carnage on the front line. The threat here wasn't just heretics and xenos; the very flesh on the corridors, the jagged protrusions of bone, the ship itself could become your killer. A squad of mortals sent to scout a route wouldn't last long enough to even reach the Gellar Field generator.
"My Lord," Colonel Kovek, who had remained silent during the debate, stepped forward and saluted. His distinctive violet eyes marked him as a true son of his homeworld. "The Cadian 43rd, the 'Broken Swords,' salutes you!"
Arthur and Romulus returned the salute with the Aquila, a fist hammered to their breastplates. Neither of them put on the airs of a demigod; just a few hours ago, they were ordinary humans from the M3 millennium. Their arrival naturally dissolved the conflict in the room.
All previous arguments had been predicated on the Angels not being present. Now that they were here, all prior assumptions were moot. Even the concern over morale was no longer an issue. A single Astartes standing on the line was worth more than a thousand of a Commissar's roars.
All eyes focused on the two Space Marines. They were the gazes of people who had felt powerless against their situation and had now found their anchor. In their eyes, the Astartes would, without question, lead them to victory for the Emperor. Such was the weight of their station in the hearts of the Imperium's citizens.
Arthur glanced at Romulus, and they saw the pressure reflected in each other's eyes. This was completely different from their old lives. Now, when crisis struck, they were the ones who had to stand tallest.
"My apologies, my Lord," the Commissar said, addressing the Angel. "I thank the Emperor for His guidance, for preventing me from making a grievous error."
Arthur silently stepped aside. He still only had a partial understanding of the situation. Romulus was clearly better suited to deal with these soldiers.
"There is no need for apologies, Commissar," Romulus said, his voice gentle but firm and solemn, calming the tense atmosphere in the room. "I was the one who spent too much time searching for my brother-in-arms, delaying your preparations to purge the enemies of the Emperor."
He then reached out, his gauntleted fingers smoothing the wrinkles on a tactical map. As the eyes from behind him fell upon the carefully planned chart, routes began to overlay the projection in his helm.
"Hmm?" a Tech-Priest attached to the command staff murmured, his optical lenses widening in surprise as he looked at the hololithic projector, which had been covered by the map. The corrupted Machine Spirit within, once spewing scrap-code, seemed to be recovering.
The tactical plans discussed by the command staff flooded Romulus's mind. His transhuman brain processed them instantly, calculating the optimal path, which now shone brightly in his helmet's display.
"Colonel Kovek, is the command post's auspex still functional?" Romulus asked, rising after a pause that, to the mortals, had lasted only three seconds.
The Colonel reversed his grip on his chainsword and unhooked the auspex from his belt. "It is operational," he confirmed.
"This is a sign that the Emperor is watching over us," Romulus declared, not missing the opportunity to inspire them. He looked at all present. "The Space Marines will act as the vanguard, conducting a high-speed assault to draw enemy forces in the surrounding area towards our position. The Sisters of Battle and Astra Militarum fireteams will be responsible for cleansing and establishing defensive nodes in our wake."
After this brief summary, Romulus looked around the room.
"Now, advance with us. My battle-brother and I will charge at the forefront, and we will carve you a path to victory."
There was no lengthy pre-battle speech. Though he was new to a real battlefield, Romulus, having deeply absorbed the ethos of war through his past life's education, knew that action was the best form of leadership. The magnificent warrior, his helmet crowned with a golden laurel, stood and picked up his heavy bolter.
KA-CHUNK.
He chambered a round.
"For the Emperor!" the Commissar intoned solemnly, the oath that was ever on the lips of the Imperium's subjects.
"For the Emperor!" the assault troops, already assembled for the attack, answered in a furious roar. They gripped their weapons, their hearts filled with rage for the enemy. They had sworn an oath to the Emperor that this day, they would slaughter every blasphemous cur who dared defile the glory of Mankind.
Failure was not an option.
Arthur scanned the soldiers, who were brimming with fighting spirit. They were not pristine heroes; the horrific intensity of the war had spattered even these preserved assault troops with blood. Their armor joints were caked with filth, and their dark fatigues were stained with gore. But he could clearly feel that they were different from the soldiers he had first seen. In that short time, the oppressive weight that had been crushing them seemed to have vanished.
In the dim light, only their sharp eyes and the Aquilas on their chests still shone brightly.
Their doubt was gone. Only courage remained.
Witnessing this scene, even Arthur, who had only just met them, was awestruck.
He turned and was the first to step through the previously sealed corridor. He moved forward down the grand hallway, once lined with exquisite mosaics and heroic statuary, now covered in blasphemous sigils and pulsating masses of flesh.
His enhanced hearing and the audio-pickups in his helmet filtered the slightest sounds from the passage ahead—frantic, chaotic noises, the scuttling of a thousand mismatched feet, painting a clear picture of the enemy lurking in the darkness.
SQUELCH!
His sword swung, and a body fell to the deck. It had been a statue, possessed by a daemon, its insides hollowed out and stuffed with mangled flesh.
A rustling sound came from behind him. Drawn by the sudden noise, the enemy was already swarming towards them.
Arthur paid them no mind.
Las-fire and bolter rounds screamed past him from behind. The horde of twisted heretics was annihilated as quickly as the mortals could pull their triggers.
Facing the special few, those blessed by Chaos and hardy enough to shrug off small arms fire, Arthur murmured in a low, determined growl.
"There is only victory!"
(End of Chapter)