The longest day...

[Sunderheart]

The longest day...

 

He could feel the summer breeze gently caressing his face. Feathery clouds were chased over the sapphire skies of Prandium. Such beauty...such inconceivable beauty. He was running. All his body was warm, his muscles dancing to the rythm and tune that his mind forcibly played for them. Onward and onward, uphill and downvalley. It was the day of the trials, he remembered now. The day, from which on he had to give all he had. To be chosen...to leave home...to serve the Emperor, glory to His name. He turned his head, to see, where his opponents were in the twelve kilometre circuit through the traininggrounds of the Gymnasia Maximus of Prandium, the school for those intending to go to the Trials of Macragge...to become one of the galaxies finest...to become...Space Marine! His opponents were nowhere near...

...as Brother Constantine turned his head, to look behind him. His genetically altered senses could not make out anything in the old tunnel behind him. The visor in his beaked helmet of the Type VI „Corvus“ pattern power-armour displayed a map of the tunnel networks. The next safepoint was half a klick down the road he was running down right now. He could not see any of his opposition behind him...but he could damn well hear the high chittering of a pack of termagaunts hard on his trail. Brother Constantine gave his muscles a push and sprinted down the tunnel. He arrived at the prepared defensive position shortly after. Sand-bags and flak-boards formed a barricade across the tunnel, roughly five metres wide and one and a half meter high. Two floodlights illuminated the old subway-tunnel, through which the third company had fought the tyranid threat. Brother Ursus nodded to Constantine, his heavy bolter trained down the tunnel, which Constantine had just come from.

„Time?“ asked Constantine.

„408 hours. 17 days straight, brother.“ was the strained answer over the vox.

Constantine went down on one knee and aimed his bolter down the tunnel, where the chittering, alien noise had now risen to a rather irritating, constant screeching, into which now merged the scratching of claws scraping over the concrete walls. Not soon afterwards the first termagaunts crawled into view. Ursus and Constantine opened fire simultaneously. Round after round thundered into the swarming, teeming mass of xenos, punching bloody lanes of fire through the host. Brother Constantine gritted his teeth, as the runes flashed in his visor, indicating the decreasing ammo in his clip...

 

...and then with a dull click, that sounded louder than a detonating melta-bomb, the slide of the bolter locked.

„Scout squad Atens...bolters at the fooooooore...Execute!“

The barking voice of Veteran Sergeant Castus thundered over the shooting range. The squad rose from the firing positions and presented their weapons as ordered. The veteran sergeant went through the ranks and checked each weapon throughly. Novice Hector was awarded four days of disciplinary fasting for poor accuracy. Constantine ran his gaze across the firing range and wondered, how many times his squad would be here, before there would be real threats...real targets...real foes...FOES...

 

...FOES...TYRANDIS...Constantines mind yelled at his drifting conscience and he snapped back to the presence. He trained his bolter at another drooling, spitting alien head and fired a double-tapped round of two bolts into the beast. It collapsed, but its momentum let it slam into the flak-board, crushing it and tearing down the barricade. Constantine caught a glimpse of yet another tyranid creature, that was coiling up for a leap straight into his position. Its fangs dripped saliva as it bared a pair of razor-sharp claws and a malicious presence paired with a bestial fury glowed behind its eyes. Then the world before him exploded in flames.

Liquid promethium, ablazed by an ignition-flame at the muzzle of a flamer, scorched mercilessly through the ranks of the riving mass of alien creatures. Shrieks and chitters echoed through the tunnels, mixing with the stutter of bolters, the howl of the flamer...and faded away, as the creatures died. Brother Dercius heaved his flamer around and hand-signalled a squad of three dozen people in from a side-tunnel and into the crossing, where the defensive position was situated.

„So...brothers...think you could slay the foes of the emperor all by your selves?“ Brother Dercius asked. The people he had just signalled in were a rag-tag band of Imperial Guards, civilians and Ministorum members. At least Dercius had managed to save a little of the population. The whole mission was going straight to hell. Constantine could see Brother Alexis at the rear-guard position of the caravan.

He tilted his head and opened a vox-link to Dercius.

„Brother, take these survivors to the extraction point on the double. Four clicks from here. Did you have any radio-contact with the rest of the company?“

„That is a straight negative, Brother Constantine. Neither captain Fabian, chaplain Telvan or brother-sergeant Perseus from the command squad can be reached. I suppose the tunnels are too deep, to establish channels. I spoke with one of the surviving guards, who said, that their whole regiment had to rely on wire-transmissions down here. And apparently these thrice-damned xeno scum are quite good at finding those cables. Did you manage to get survivors out of your target zone?“ was the answer.

„No. We emerged in the middle of what was left of the city. It was already terraformed by these aliens. No survivors to speak of, no time to search for any. The sergeant and seven other brothers were killed in an ambush by a horde of symbionts. Ursus and myself have been on the run ever since. 17 days now. No sleep, feeding on fungi growing down here, trying to keep the tunnels open for as long as possible. We are falling back, hour by hour, day by day. I don't know, where the other squads are. Emperors mercy, I hope they are still alive. Now get moving. We'll be straight behind you...“

 

„... straight behind you.“ Novice Talus whispered. His camo-cloak was covered with dirt and blood. He wiped his combat knife on a patch of moss. Scout-squad Atens was now six kilometres deep in the orc-territory. Six kilometres of dense, green hell, officially called a jungle. Fighting green opponents before a green background. Constantine crouched through the thicket, his sniper-rifle slung to the back and his blackened combat knife at the ready. Talus and Novice-sergeant Atens had taken out three orcs with their knives, before they could raise an alarm. Constantine consulted his map. They had almost completed their flanking maneuvre, which had taken them behind a massive push of the greenskinds towards hive-city Calissa. Third company, reinforced by a detachment of terminators had intercepted and engaged the greenskins. With support from the 22nd Partaine Lanciers Imperial Guard Regiment, the third company had stopped the advance and was now pushing the greenskins back into the jungle. The terminators were held at the teleporting-stations of the orbiting strike-cruiser. Scout-squad Atens along with three other squads were deployed to infiltrate the enemy lines, flank the orc advance and deploy beacons for the terminators, so that the third company and the Imperial Guard could hammer the orcs into an anvil of tactical cybot suits and first company veterans.

Constantine raised his hand and signalled his all-clear...

 

...and moved forward with Brother Ursus, casting wary glances into the dark behind them. Constantine started to worry. His...daydreams...became increasingly vivid. Experiences long made passed unbidden before his eyes. Seventeen days he was awake now, without being able to at least partially rest his mind by the catalepsian node. A constant engagement of attack, stand ground, fall back and recover. Seventeen days for the evacuation of Baridan-City. Because they were Ultramarines. Because they would never let down any loyal servant of the emperor in need of protection from the xeno-scum that roamed the galaxy. When the tyranid incursion had become aware to the Imperial Guard regiments and the planetary governor, they had immediately called for aid and dug in. They had fortified the cities, which were constantly bombarded by spores. They had made fortifications above in the city and escape routes in the tunnels of the subways, canals and sewers, constructing a network of supply centers, parapets, gun emplacements and flak-batteries. Whoever had been at work here, he was a decent logistical expert. During the last seventeen days, Constantine had heavily relied upon the supply-stashes around the city. Never had his trusted bolter run dry for longer then fifteen minutes. As the city was more and more turned into a breeding pond for the aliens, they had doubled their efforts to extract as many people from the city. This was Constantines fourth extraction run and the second on which he and his brothers returned empty handed. The city had fallen. It was time to get out and bomb those xenos from orbit.

[Sunderheart]

Constantine stumbled forward...for how long, he could not remember. Next to him, Brother Ursus also seemed to be running on his last reserves. Constantine couldn't believe it, that even space marines...genetically altered, bestowed with gifts from ancient times and armed with faith in the holy emperor...had limits.

„Mighty master of mankind high upon thy golden throne, bless thine servants, whom thou does test with such trials of fire.“ Constantine prayed silently. At least he thought, but then he heard Brother Ursus mutter „Amen!“. Before Constantine could wander of in thoughts again, it was, as if his prayers were answered. Light shimmered in the distance. Daylight! Finally out of the maze. At least they were now able to fight, and – most likely – die below the sun and the open sky. They reached a sewer-exit, where a pile of dirt, debris and rubble formed a ramp down into a wide, open canal. The canalworks were dry and smoking wrecks littered the bottom, with corpses of man and beast alike between them. Constantine cross-referenced with his battle-map, according to which they were at sewer range south-42. The nearest extraction point was two kilometers east, along the canalworks. Constantine stopped for a moment and gazed upwards. Pieces of gray clouds chased above them, mixed with smoke coming from the towering ruins of the fallen hive-city. The air smelled acrid. It smelled of death...the death of machines, men and beast. The death of a world! And with a hiss and a charring sound his vox-link awoke.

„...battery fire, coordinates along phase-line purple, elevate 60, press 200. Fire for effect, fire for effect. Over!“

Constantine rejoiced. The voice was Brother Veirtes, artillery coordinator in brother-captain Mikael Fabians personal command-squad. If Veirtes was directing batteries personally, that meant probably the company command-structure was still intact and they might even have a chance of bringing the few survivors into safety. The civilians were forming a marching column under the instructions of Brother Dercius currently, with the imperial guard soldiers as a picket line. Three pairs of two soldiers were moving as a spearhead, with Brother Dercius on the left and Brother Alexis on the right. Only now could Constantine see, that Alexis' left arm was nothing more than a bloody stump with an improvised bandage. He held his bolt-pistol firmly in his right hand and seemed to have no problems. Constantine wished, he had Alexis kind of stamina or willpower or whatever it was, that kept him going. But then he remembered...

 

...as they became fully grown marines, warriors of Ultramar, that Chaplain Ortan Cassius himself had spoken personally with Brother Alexis, and that of all the novices, Alexis might one day become a brother-chaplain, for his zeal, his faith and his will were by far excelling the likes of his fellow novices. He saw Alexis stand in the first row, as the thirty scouts, returning victorious from another bloody sortie against dark-eldar raiders, were gathered along with the brethren of the third company for the ceremonial debriefing by brother-captain Fabian and brother-chaplain Telvan. His gaze wandered to the reliquary-standart Alexis was allowed to bear for the accomplishments of the scout-detachment and he wished, he was as courageous and steadfast as his brother...

 

...and shook his head, to clear his eyes of the vivid mental images. Constantine felt like screaming, as doubts filled his mind. Was he ever worthy of being a brother marine? He forced his mind on the task ahead. Get to the EZ, save the civies, join the fight. He tilted his head.

„Perseus, come in. This is Gatherer-Four. Perseus, come in.“ he spoke into his vox-link. He prayed, that his voice was not trembling. The answer was coming, sharp and full of edge.

„Clear channels. Gatherer-Four, this is Perseus. Identify immediately. ...HIS NAME SHALL BE PRAISED...“

Constantines eyes filled with tears as he formulated the answer.

„...and His foes be smitten and driven into darkness for ever.“

„This is Perseus. Confirmed. We are reading you, Gatherer-four. We'll be sure waiting for you to tell us your tale. Command and Tactica Imperialis has calculated your death eight Standard days ago. Sit-rep, over.“ Brother-Sergeant Perseus voice was filled with surprise and disbelief.

„Perseus, this is Gatherer. Mission is over. Say again, Mission is over. Networks are crawling with enemy. We are currently escorting thirty plus civilians along sewer-range south-42 due east, Extraction-Zone Gladius. Request pickup. Over.“ replied Constantine, waving Dercius and Alexis forward.

„This is Perseus. Roger that. Gladius is green for pickup. Anything else?“

„Brother Alexis might require medical attention, we are running low on ammunition for a heavy-bolter and a flamer. Apart from that...we are His loyal and devoted servants.“

Constantine wondered, how these words came so easily over his lips. Was there perhaps a neurological phenomenon? That his altered brain was already half-dreaming in recovery and he was fighting with his other half as his duty and honor demanded?

„Copy that. Perseus out. Courage and honor, brother!“

„Aye, sergeant. Courage and honor. Gatherer out.“

Brother Constantine pulled himself together, raised his bolter and leapt down the rubble and into the canalworks. He waved his hands twice upward and dashed his fist forward once. Brother Alexis and Brother Dercius signalled their affirmations and took point. The little caravan started marching forward again. They were some three hundred metres away from the sewer drain, when the first of the tyranids emerged out of the hole and lifted his nose into the air, probing the tastes of the wind and the ground. Then he spotted the column of marines and civilians, tilted his head and gave a long howling screech.

Constantine and Ursus heard the scream and turned. Constantine switched to the vox frequency for his „squad“ of survivors.

„Brothers, we are discovered. Alexis and Dercius, continue point, double speed. After four hundred, that is four-zero-zero, hold and cover our retreat. Imperial guard will take point and keep the civies moving. We will retreat in staggered two-man pattern. Understood?“ he voxed, as he helped Brother Ursus yank another belt from his backpack and load his heavy bolter. They kneeled behind the wreck of a crashed marauder-class bomber.

„As you command, brother. FOR TERRA!“ Dercius replied and made off into the distance. Constantine surveyed the area. He could make out three sewer exits; all of them were spitting out little tyranid organisms, that formed a stampede towards them. He touched Ursus shoulder...

 

...and the barking of the heavy bolter filled the air. Constantine sweated, as he mustered all the strength his genetically enhanced muscles and the servoes of his power armour could give him, so that the weapon would not climb and throw its shells right down the slopes of the ridge, that squad Atens was holding against an onslaught of the dark brothers of the eldar. The explosive warheads thundered down towards the enemy, every fifth round a tracer, burning a straight line into a mass of mutated, warpspawned beasts. The acrid smell of burning cordite, white-hot steel of the muzzle and alien blood mingled with the overall stench of the warp on this world, which the intel reports designated a gate-world, a node within the network of routes the eldar took on their hidden paths. With hissing, barking sounds, the beasts came closer, only now to face the combined firepower of the squads bolters and brother-sergeant Atens calm, menacing voice, guiding and directing his fire patterns down towards the enemy. With muffled, thumping sounds a volley of grenades detonated between the warp-beasts, who vanished in a hail of dirt and shrapnell. Two mutilated survivors emerged out of the smoke. With a high-pitched humming the squads melta ignited one of them and detonated it, as the intense microwave beam immediately crumbled the monster into ash, torn away by the winds on this world. Constantine swung his heavy bolter around and levelled the last beast into the ground with his remaining fifteen shots in his belt. He slammed the ejection handle into the weapon and switched the belt-port on his backpack open. A steel-latch dropped out of the ammunition-compartment. Brother Constantine reached back for the latch...

 

...but this was the last belt. Brother Ursus had spent the last of his rapid-fire rounds. Constantine shook his head and cleared his vision. Dead tyranids covered the ground before him in an arc of roughly fifty metres. Behind that, more, quite lively, hormagaunts gathered and shrieked. Constantine slapped Ursus twice on his shoulder and started to sprint back towards Alexis and Dercius. He could hear Ursus right behind him.

[Sunderheart]

„Dercius, heads up, we are on the way.“ he gasped into the vox-set.

„Roger that, Brother. Brilliant shooting. Like a true son of Guilliman.“ was the reply. Constantine wondered, why he did not remember firing any shots at the tyranids. He checked the gauges on his bolter. Four rounds remaining in his sickle-pattern magazine. Last time he looked, was after leaving the sewer-pipe. Back then he had a full clip. This was getting out of control. Where was his mind...his memory...his trained senses, honed in battle? Did they leave him now, in this moment of dire need? Was his own end not far behind?

He charged towards an improvised barricade, behind which he could see the figures of Alexis and Dercius and one man in the uniform of an Imperial Guard, who trained a grenade launcher at a point somewhere above Constantines head. With a metallic „cling“ a cylindrical object whistled past them. Seconds later the pressure-wave of a detonating fragmentation grenade hit Constantine into his back and sent decapitated limbs from the aliens behind him flying past his shoulders.. He picked up the force of the push to roll himself over the parapet composed of the remainders from a hover-car. Heartbeats later, Brother Ursus leaped clear and over the obstacle, landing on his feet and turning around with the rest of his momentum. He waved at Alexis, who picked himself up and waved at the Guardsman with the launcher. Together, Ursus, Alexis and the Guardsman sprinted down that canal and towards a retaining wall, that marked a higher ground, which was the designated landing zone. Dercius and Constantine raised their weapons and started to fire at the tyranids. Dercius flamer spat roaring arcs of ignited promethium for some three seconds, before the weapon started to cough out inert gases from the pressure-tank. Dercius switched to his bolt pistol. And then Constantine realized something. His vision started to broaden as his mind picked up a chair and simply watched his hands and his weapon do their work. With a detached fascination, Constantine watched the gauges on his bolter count down to zero and see his arms rock, as they compensated the recoil of the last round, that slided the lock into the holding mechanism. But his right hand had already begun to move towards his belt and climbed back into his field of vision, a full clip clasped tightly between the fingers. The empty magazine flew out the slot and the new one was inserted immediately. The left hand racketed the slide and the gauges sprung back to a green „24“. Constantine let his gaze wander over the hordes of aliens approaching him, noticing with a childly curiousness, that the muzzle of his weapon followed every move of his eyes immediately. Whenever Constantine realized, that he was staring at a potential threat, a flash appeared, the gauge decreased by one and a tyranid was sent screaming down to the ground. All of this happened in slow-motion, like they were all moving through a thick block of gelatine. The voice of Brother Ursus yelling over the voxcaster got Constantine back into the „comanders“ chair of his body.

„Perimeter set. Get back here, double time! Come on you heroes, leave some of this to your devoted and loyal brethren.“ Constantine could swear there was a touch of irony in Ursus tone.

Constantine nodded at Dercius, who gave him a thumbs-up sign and started to sprint back towards the high ground. His armored feet thundered over the concrete ground, cracking its surface open, as his pace quickened. His breath ran steady, the filtering-mechanisms in his rebreather-units in the backpack adjusting the oxygene levels for his metabolism. His two hearts mustered a steady rythm, that fell into a symphony of drumrolls with his footsteps. In front of him appeared a narrow ramp, that lead to the artificial mesa of the canals retaining-cisterns. The wreck of a torn-up heavy-duty-lifter blocked four fifths of the ramp, making it an ideal choke-point for a defensive perimeter up on the wall. Constantines genetically altered eyes could make out the helmets of the Imperial Guards from the retreating-party. Below every helmet was a las-gun pointed at the tyranids on Constantines heels. On the wreckage stood brother Alexis, his remaining hand now clutching a chain-sword, raised high, as to defy the enemy and warn the beasts approaching of the doom that would now follow. Constantine quickened his pace, the machinery of his body following every order from the nerves of the space marines brain, that was now focused on one thing: GET THERE! Brother Dercius had acquired a solid lead on him, being an even better runner than Constantine. Constantine felt like he was back at the trials. Dercius had always bested him in the championships for aspiration on Macragge in running disciplines. The aspirant from Talassar against the aspirant from Prandium...a legendary duel in the Arenas of Ultramar. And Dercius had always been the faster one. Back there...back there they were rivals. Here...a million lightyears away from these arenas...they were brothers, destined to die for one another. In front of him Dercius turned in mid-sprint, throwing a handful of primed breaching-grenades over his shoulder, before picking up his initial pace. Constanine raced past the little cylinders and heard a satisfying bang behind him. Dercius waved one arm over his shoulder, as if to invite Constantine to try harder and finally catch him this time. The rockcrete walls of the narrowing canal-works flew passed his visor, a mere gray blurr. In front of the two Ultramarines, Alexis, chaplain-to-be waved his chain-blade at the tyranids. A salvo of las-fire screamed over their heads, followed by a grenade from the launcher and something else. Something considerably larger. A shattering noise and an increasing hiss of acid hitting organic tissue reached Constantines ears. Apparently Brother Ursus had scrounged a few hell-fire rounds for the heavy bolter. Maddening screams howled and echoed from the walls of the cisterns and canals, as it appeared that the tyranids would be denied their prey. Brother Dercius had reached the barricade and turned, his bolter already up and aimed. Las-fire, bolt-rounds and grenades were the fireworks for Constantines march back towards the lines. A hundred metres distance to go. The cracks under his rumbling boots widened as he once more quickened his steps, now mobilizing his very last reserves. The end was now nearer, he could feel it. The cracks grew wider. Black pits opening under the blue boots of the Ultramarine, racing his last race.

But it was not enough. Fifty metres before the safety of the highground and the other marines, the rockcrete buckled as the venator broke through the surface, fangs bared and razor-sharp, chitinous claws raised. Constantine was send sprawling through the air, trying to aim his bolter at the incredibly large beast, that still heaved its massive figure out of the tunnel it had silently dug. Then Constantines view shook, as he hit rock-bottom. His backpack drove its lock-bolts deep into Constantines back, the force of the impact driving all air out of his lungs. His head hit the ground and his helmet split, shattering into pieces. The optical displays flickered, died and went out, before the Corvus-pattern mask flew aside. Constantine heard several bones crack and give way. Then his gaze went skywards as he saw a claw, two metres in length, light from the setting sun glittering along its edge, descend out of the heavens...

 

...where the Emperor once had come from, down to Macragge, where Roboute Guilliman had waited for him. Back home, where generations of space marines had been born, trained, honoured and laid to rest. Back, where Squad Atens was finally inducted as full brothers and transferred to the third company. Where a young novice Constantine had received the blessings of the chaplain and rose Brother Constantine of fallen Prandium and Ultramar. Where he shipped out to countless sorties and crusades with the Scourge of the Xenos, under captain Ardias and captain Fabian, along with sergeant Atens and Brother Dercius. Until that last ceremony, that wished the third company farewell to the crusades finally leading Constantine to the evacuation of Baridan-hive, where he laid down his life after near-eighteen days of constant engagement without rest, to bring three of his brothers and 38 civilians back to safety. Darkness took Constantine. His mind wandered and laid down to finally find the peace of the dutiful, the Emperors most highest and noblest of mercies...

 

...at least so he had thought. And had been taught. Constantine tried to focus his senses on his vision. Everything he could make out, was a small rectangular window of dim candle light. Around that was a darkness so total, that one might think he had been thrown into the Empyrrean itself. Yet the darkness was also warm, comforting, almost soothing, as if his body was granted rest with a small view of the world he had left behind. Constantine managed a small sigh of comfort.

It was answered by a mechanical rumble below him and a whispering voice in the back of his head.

„All hail, mighty Constantine. I am the machine spirit of the revered dreadnought Sunderheart. Thou hast been declared senex antiquus.“

[Roguemarine]

i can't believe no one has given you any comments on this, this was an amazing piece...excellent writing keep up the good work.

[EmperorBobo]

Great story Sunderheart!

[KEEPER]

Seriously bro. I'm at lost for words. Everything was gripping keeping me interested the whole time. Tactics used by the Marine in the story were all spot of to real world, and so was the lingo used. I like it. Hope you keep writing about this character!