Phaeton IV Gamma

[argo-titilius]

A little teaser... ;)

 

 

Prologue

 

The Basilica Terra was an enormous structure, its crenellated sides soaring upwards and dominating the landscape for miles around. Ships gathered around the docking bays on its upper reaches while on the ground a score of dark clothed imperial guardsmen drilled. Of all the ships congregated at the fortresses’ pinnacle, none were mightier than the Ave Imperius. A Space Marine Strike Cruiser, she was painted a deep blood red from prow to stern, the endless colour only broken by a large golden upside-down ‘v’ amidships. This single gargantuan warship was the flagship of a great and noble chapter of Space Marines; the Scarlet Avengers.

 

On the Ave’s control deck her commander, Lord Admiral Toby Skarrl, nodded at the helmsman who in return leant over his controls, runes flickering as the great engines begun to warm up.

 

“Are we ready to begin the warp translation yet Lord Admiral?”

 

The speaker was standing in one corner of the deck, the shadows only enhancing the apparent size of his power-armoured bulk. As he stepped forwards the colour of his armour shone, its rich scarlet hues filling the room. But yet his face was the polar opposite, covered in scar tissue and bionics, it radiated coolness and authority. Here was a man who knew his business, and knew it well.

 

Skarrl nodded, “yes Brother-Captain Corvus.”

 

The admiral too was a Space Marine but unlike Corvus’ his armour was a deep blue, the only red on it one huge shoulder pad.

 

With a roar of engines the Ave slowly spun around until her prow pointed almost directly upwards, towards the inky blackness of space. Then there was a whoosh and the entire ship seemed to shrink to a pinprick before disappearing altogether.

 

The Scarlet Avengers were on the war march again.

[Hibberyjoo]

Nice work! Very interesting so far

[argo-titilius]

The next 1000 words. Introduces the main human protagonists, location etc.

 

Chapter One

 

Phaeton IV Gamma was a small manufactorium world on the western edge of the Imperium. Its capital, Jackson’s Folly was small by comparison with the huge industrial cities around the equator. Normally it was the preserve only of the rich leaders of the unions, who owned the deep ceramite mines and the huge manufactoriums that littered the planet’s surface. But today, there was something wrong in the city. The pleasure gardens and the ornamental parks were full to bursting with shabbily clothed refugees, pouring in from across the main continent, Margerinea. They didn’t speak much to the shop-keepers and residents of Jackson but everyone knew that something terrible had come to Phaeton IV.

 

In the mighty enclave that was the Imperial Palace, Phaeton’s ruler, his grace the Tsar Poploc the Fourteenth was huddled around a holo map of the planet. He was surrounded by his advisors and aides but still felt haggard and tired as he ran a knarled hand through his thinning grey hair. He had ruled the planet for thirty years after his father, also Poploc, had passed into the emperor’s care, yet nothing had prepared him for this.

 

The reports coming in from the besieged major cities were not looking good whilst contact with smaller towns had been lost altogether. His advisors had no idea what was happening and Poploc was loath to call for help from the administratum. If it all turned out to just be a communications error… the results didn’t bear thinking about. One of his new aides, a tech-magus named Pladitorvitch Kamaliov, was droning on about ground maintenance surveys and core testing when suddenly it hit him.

 

The Necrontyr.

 

It explained the sudden loss of communications, the violent earthquakes and the reports of armies of skeletons with green fire. Only he, who had fought against them in the Imperial Navy’s Patriarch Encounters, would have known it. He could still remember the silent metal ships, the green gauss beams that they sent streaming towards the emperor’s mighty battlecruisers, the screams of men as they were sucked out into space through jagged breaches in the ship’s great hull.

 

Poploc, took a deep breath and, cutting over the magi, begun to explain his theory. Most of his retinue agreed, especially the scarred generals of his two PDF Corps. One of them, a perpetually scowling man named Josefov Stalinavitch spoke up; his thick southern accent making him hard to hear over the mutter of the room’s many servitors.

 

“I have 100,000 men and as 60,000 Leman Russes mobilised and ready your grace, tell me where the enemy’s HQ is and the 32nd Phaeton Light Brigade will annihilate them all.”

 

His counterpart, a fatter, bespectacled man wearing a combat smock dripping with decorations, cut over him. “No your Tsarness,” he purred. “The 95th Phaeton Rifles will do the killing work, we have thrice the artillery of the dragoons, let us bombard them into oblivion from afar.”

 

Poploc was used to the infighting between his regimental officers but this was getting tiresome. He stood up, the sudden movement drawing the attention of his two quarrelling senior commanders.

 

“I have the best plan to save our planet,” the aged ruler declared, his voice cracking. “The mighty Space Marines.”

 

A murmur travelled around the room, only stopping when a burly adept voiced everybody’s thoughts. “The Astartes? Why will they come here?”

 

The Tsar answered him, “I once saved the life of a great Space Marine Captain named Corvus, from the famous Scarlet Avengers chapter. He owes me a blood debt, and that is why he shall come to my planet’s aid today.”

 

Poploc strode away from the conference room with a new purpose in his step, only stopping when he came to a strong bulkhead door. He inserted a finger into the bio-scanner. The device read and accepted his DNA and the built in servitor swung the heavy door open while the automated argon globes began to flash on, illuminating the Tsar’s private quarters. On one side, a flight of steps led down into darkness while on the other was an unmade cot, for the Tsar lived simply. He strode in and opened a drawer of his desk, extracting an engraved rosewood box.

 

Hands trembling slightly, he undid the catches and opened the case. Inside, resting in a soft niche was a large, heavy looking boltgun. Poploc reached past this great weapon and pulled out a smaller, but no less complicated long-distance vox communicator. Stepping onto the balcony, he pointed the device towards the sky and pressed the button on the side marked ‘transmit’. Immediately the device began sending out an automated signal, a series of meaningless buzzes that meant nothing to anything.

 

Anything except the main computer on the Ave Imperius.

 

Admiral Skarrl was disturbed one hour later by a young midshipman with a message slip. ”Lord Admiral, we have a problem.”