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Unrepentant Son (Updated 4/29)

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Like so many of the Alpha Legion's operations, it began with a series of seemingly unconnected events.

 

A Black Coat forger going by the name of Anders created seven fraudulent travel visas. These allowed a passenger shuttle bearing seven occupants to move from customs orbital A-32 to the surface of Yulais Prime.

 

A spaceport shift manager was bribed an extortionate amount of money to allow for the intake of two new trainee pilots for the port's low-orbit security gunship fleet.

 

A large armored transport truck was stolen from the lot of Daedalus Trust and Investment, the second biggest bank in the hive. Consequently, Gravus Hive Arbites Commander Duran detailed three squads of arbitrators to provide additional security to the bank. This bank was located over fifty kilometers from the Imperialis Donativum, the hive's single largest bank.

 

An Imperial Navy frigate was permitted access to low-orbit over Yulais Prime, broadcasting ident codes that identified it as the Wrath of Heaven. These codes were fraudulent, and the true Wrath had been lost with all hands to a Chaos fleet months earlier. The ship's actual name, The Dynasty would not be discovered for some time.

 

A chop shop, run by an underhive gang, accepted a commission to retrofit an armored truck with axles and shocks that would permit the carriage of much greater weight. The work was completed in an afternoon.

 

Six civilian transport were rented under a false name, and driven to six different points in the upper reaches of Gravus Hive. Each of these had been loaded with high-yield explosives, and their trunks had been packed with industrial screws and bolts.

 

The day of the heist had come.

 

*****

 

The Black Coat named Coschik sat in uphive civilian clothes, lounging in the pleasant sunlight all up-hivers were privileged enough to enjoy. He checked his chronometer, noting that it was nearly noon.

 

"Twelve hundred hours, and not a minute before." The man calling himself Maximilian had instructed. "One minute more and you don't get paid."

 

It was two minutes till.

 

Coschik sipped at his iced water, watching people come and go down the boulevard. He unconsciously patted the detonator that sat in the pocket of his trousers. That detonator, when activated, would activate the explosives armed in six vehicles on the far side of the upper hive. But not yet, he had to wait until noon.

 

Once the explosives were blown, his role was over. Coschik was to dispose of the detonator as discreetly as possible, and then lay low for a few days. The situated would work itself out, and once word came down that the heist at the Imperialis Donativum was concluded, all he would have to do was wait. When things cooled off again, he could return to the Black Coats and pick up his fee.

 

This Maximilian was a brutal bastard to be sure. Setting off six anti-personnel car bombs in crowded areas just to distract emergency services? That was cold, even by Black Coat standards. Coschik felt no personal guilt for the bombs he was about to set off. If not him, then someone else would have done the job. He was not the only explosives expert on Yulais Prime. If the deed was going to happen regardless, he may as well profit from it. Let the guilt hang around that Maximilian's shoulders. He knew he was not at fault.

 

What he couldn't know was that there was a seventh bomb, one smaller than all the rest. What he couldn't know that the detonator he held was not the same one he had programmed, though the two looked remarkably similar. What he couldn't know was that Maximilian, real name Balchus, had altered the detonator Coschik had made, retrofitting it with a smaller transmitter. This cleared up additional space within the detonator to fill it with shrapnel, and wire the detonator itself to blow up in his hand. A pipebomb on a delayed fuse, to ensure the other six car bombs would explode before the detonator itself became a weapon.

 

Coschik looked at his chonometer. Noon, on the dot. He calmly reached a hand into his pocket, eased the detonator out beneath the table, and squeezed the trigger.

 

One second.

 

Two.

 

The cafe' erupted in sound and fire. The small, banana-sized tube of metal exploded in Coschik's lap, the packed shrapnel screaming out of the weapon in all directions and burying itself in the mercenary's torso. His internal organs were shredded on impact, liquefied from within as the flames of the blast seared his clothing and flesh. The force of the blast blew Coschik backwards out of his chair, killing him before he crashed against the wall behind him.

 

A fire alarm screamed. People screamed. Chaos reigned.

 

****

 

On the other side of the hive, four men hunched over in an armored truck that rumbled towards the Imperialis Donativum. Balchus and the three mercenaries with him sat in thick carapace armor, their faces covered in black boot polish. White eyes stared out through the grime-smeared faces as the men checked and rechecked the readiness of their autoguns, each ensuring that he had enough mags for the operation ahead.

 

Balchus's eyes did a quick inspection of the men with him. All of them were similarly armed, and carried black equipment duffles packed with various gear. The one who called himself Grayson was visible through the steel mesh that separated the cab from the cargo area of the truck. The back of his head was visible as he negotiated the armored vehicle through the busy up-hive highways. He was bald, and like all the others wore an earbead for tactical communication.

 

Anders sat across from Balchus, reapplying the shoe polish on his face for the third time. The man spoke little, but Balchus had to admire his skill as a counterfeiter. The visas he had created for the group had been among the most convincing he had ever seen. He was an older man, but his build suggested a lifetime of combat, probably ex-guard.

 

Then Rius sat at Balchus's right. Rius was the brother of Coschik. Balchus looked at his chonometer and realized that the man was probably dead about now. One less loose end. Rius was oblivious. He continued checking his autogun for blockages.

 

"Alright, turn it on." Balchus called out to the cab. Without a reply, Grayson took a hand from the wheel to flip on the vox scanner that had been added to the truck at the chop shop.

 

"-confirm multiple explosions"

 

"emergency services have no-"

 

"Med-evac requested from outlying hives-"

 

The voices came as Grayson toggled frequencies. Rius gave Balchus a nod. "Told you my brother would get it done. That'll tie the Arbites up nicely."

 

Balchus nodded.

 

"We're here." Grayson announced, slowing the truck to an idle. Balchus could hear civilian cars honking loudly behind them. He glanced ahead through the mesh and out the windshield, seeing the glass and marble entryway of the Imperialis Donativum looming before them. "Are we ready?" Grayson asked asked.

 

"Ready!" Rius called out.

 

"Let's do it!" Anders yelled.

 

"Go!" Balchus pounded on the mesh.

 

The truck suddenly accelerated rapidly, it's inertia slowly being overcome as Grayson pushed the pedal all the way to the floor. The four men wedged mouth guards across their teeth as the truck approached top speed.

 

The engine growled, it's driveshaft turning rapidly as it propelled the massively heavy vehicle forward. Balchus felt his blood sing at the prospect of impending battle, the adrenaline flowing. It was a battle after all, just a different battlefield than most soldiers would ever see. The Alpha Legion always showed up in unexpected places.

 

The armored truck bucked as it bounded over the curb at top speed, There was only a slight pause until the the sound of shattering glass and smashing masonry enveloped the four robbers in a wash of sound. The interior of the truck shook wildly and each man held on to his handhold with white-knuckled grips. Balchus fought to keep his head from banging against the steel walls as he heard citizens screaming and shouting, doubtless scattering to avoid the runaway truck. The drive leveled out, and with a glance through the mesh window, Balchus could see they had driven right into the lobby, as planned. The truck lurched to a halt.

 

He spat his mouthguard out, and racked his autogun.

 

"Let's go! Stick to the plan!"

 

Rius threw open the rear double doors. The three men poured from the back of the truck, now dented and covered in dust. The autoguns came up expertly and with all the professionalism of trained soliders. Grayson exited the driver side door, his own autogun up as he moved into position.

 

The lobby was completely destroyed. Broken glass and crushed marble littered the area. Blood spattered the front fender of the truck where someone, perhaps multiple someones, had been too slow in getting out of the way. Some people screamed, others just staggered about in shock.

 

Balchus fired a quick burst from his autogun into the air, the slamming report of the hard rounds echoing painfully through the vaulted chamber. More screaming, but now he had their attention.

 

"Everyone down in three seconds! If you are not down when I get to three, you die! One! Two!"

 

Everyone was down, on their faces in the rubble.

 

Balchus nodded once, waving at the team to fan out. The men swept across the lobby, weapons ready as they checked abutting offices and corridors for stragglers. Grayson dragged a whimpering manager from his office, pushing him down on his face with the others.

 

Balchus unslung his dufflebag, unzipping it and removing a small rectangular device. He knelt and placed it carefully on the marble floor, taking care that it was far removed from any hard obstructions. Satisfied that his men had the situation under control, he flipped the switch on the device and rapidly began moving away from it. A green light on the device blinked once. Twice. Three times.

 

Crackling energy and light filled the room for one blinding instant. The bank patrons screamed at the unexpected burst of light and noise, but in a moment it was over. The overpowering sphere of energy faded as rapidly as it had appeared.

 

Where the teleport homer had once been, now stood a massive figure clad in blue terminator armor chased in scaled green. His face was covered by a squat helm, red eye lenses looking out on the small mortals with disinterest. One arm ended in a massive, double-barrelled weapon from the era of the Great Crusade known as a reaper autocannon. A barbed sword hilt sat in a scabbard about the giant's waist.

 

His shoulder pauldrons bore a symbol, one that was rarely worn openly. For this operation, it wouldn't matter. Durmanhoth of the Alpha Legion proudly wore the multi-headed hydra emblem as he stood silent and imposing in the center of the lobby.

Algorithm Battle-Brother

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Vex and the Black Coat pilot called Noonan moved quickly, slipping into their flight gear and packing the rest away into their duffles. The old smuggler felt off in the flight suit, bearing the livery of the Gravus Hive Security Task Force. He was much more suited to wearing whatever he stumbled out of bed and threw on. Actually, he corrected himself, what he was used to as of late were his prison fatigues from Armillo North. As things stood, his wardrobe had improved. Now at least he had a pilot's sidearm slung around his chest as standard-issue gear.

 

"Keep up, damn it!" Noonan hissed, peeking around a hallway corner and then hustling out of their bunk room. The pair had been permitted access to the facility as trainee pilots in the Sky Interdiction Squadron, or SIS, a fleet of gunships that stood ready for rapid deployment throughout the hive. They had been in place barely a week when the reports had begun filtering in. Several explosions had been reported across the hive, and terrorism was suspected. SIS was being mobilized to provide both emergency medical evac and to stand ready in the event that law enforcement on the ground needed fire support. It was the event they had been waiting for.

 

"Only because you asked nicely," Vex replied, adding the word "bastard" under his breath. The two had not gotten along since Durmanhoth had deployed them together, and Vex, in typical fashion, had turned to mocking the man as a way to pass the time. Now the time had come, and they had a role to play.

 

The pair moved with the tide of other pilots, streaming out of the barracks that sat alongside numerous landing pads at the top of the hive. Daylight stung Vex's eyes. On each pad sat the blocky, ugly shape of a security gunship. Each ship bore a twin-cockpit encased by a single armaglass canopy, the livery of Gravus Hive adorning each side of the hull. The rear of each gunship contained a small cargohold, capable of transporting a single light vehicle or a platoon of emergency personnel. Vex and Noonan matched the pace of the other pilots, trying not to stand out in the crowd. They were posing as trainees, after all, and were not to be deployed in this exercise.

 

"Which one?" Noonan asked. The pair slowed to a jog amidst the pads, their heads turning from gunship to gunship. "Which one, you stupid frakker?" Noonan's blood was up, his teeth clenched in irritation.

 

Vex's role in the assignment was twofold. First, as a trained pilot, he would assist Noonan in stealing a gunship. His second role had been to engage the crew of their target gunship in a game of cards the night before, and slip a powerful sedative in their drinks. This would ensure that Vex and Noonan would be able to pilot the gunship in their place without too much trouble. The game of cards had ended with two groggy pilots returning to their billets, and Vex pocketing his hard-gambled winnings.

 

Now if only Vex could remember which gunship had belonged to the drugged pilots.

 

"Vex!" Noonan was practically frothing with impatience now.

 

"That one!" Vex exclaimed, pointing to his left. A gunship sat unattended, the ground crew having fueled it up and run a preflight check on it already. Noonan sighed, straightening up and moving quickly towards it. Vex moved along behind the Black Coat, his stomach dropping as he remembered the words of the Alpha Legionnaire.

 

"As soon as the mission is completed, put two rounds in the back of the Black Coat's head."

 

Vex hadn't argued, and he hadn't asked why. He had learned not to ask why. All the same, the thought sickened him. The smuggler had been in his share of scraps, and some of his heists had undoubtedly destroyed lives along the way. But cold-blooded murder? The fact that he didn't understand the reason only made things worse. He didn't like the mercenary, to be sure, but he wasn't ready to be his executioner either. The only thing that scared him more was the thought of disobeying the hulking astartes. In the end, Vex had just nodded his assent. Now he looked at the back of Noonan's head as he jogged after him, wondering what it would look like after the bullets went in. He hated this.

 

Noonan reached the gunship, climbing up the step ladder next to the forward cockpit and tossing his dufflebag in. He had one foot in the cockpit when a stern voice called out behind them.

 

"Hey! That's our gunship, idiots!"

 

Vex turned, his heart skipping a beat as he saw the pair of pilots approaching them. He knew right away he had screwed up. These were not the pilots he had drugged. He had chosen the wrong gunship. Noonan glared down at him a moment, one leg still in the cockpit.

 

"It's been reassigned." Vex called out, summoning a cheery voice over his sudden fear impulse and affecting his usual cheeky grin. "You didn't get the reassignment schedule? You boys are flying with B-Wing now, over there." Vex pointed vaguely at a distant hangar.

 

"B-Wing is over there." One pilot pointed out, his voice deadpan as he pointed in the opposite direction. "Your flight suits identify you as trainee pilots. You aren't even authorized to fly. What the hell is going on?"

 

"Bit of a bugger." Vex said, his charlatan's mind frantically searching for words. His smile returned, and he casually pointed at the pilot who had spoken. "Say, you know a guy named Vilkas? You look just like my buddy Vilkas! You do!"

 

"Something isn't right here," said the other pilot, drawing his sidearm. "I'm calling the shift chief." His free hand reached to the radio at his belt.

 

A deafening bang rang out behind Vex, and the pilot with the autopistol pitched over backwards, a hole punched in his chest. His partner drew his autopistol and leapt to the side, firing as he fell. Vex ducked, fumbling for his own sidearm as a series of staccato bursts rang out from behind him and from the pilot. By the time he brought his autopistol forward, he saw that the second pilot was now likewise down, screaming from the bullet wound in his wrist.

 

"Vex!" Noonan screamed, his voice edged with pain. The smuggler turned, seeing the mercenary now clambering into the cockpit, his own shoulder a bleeding fountain of pulped flesh. The Black Coat had also been hit. "Let's go now or I swear I'll leave you here!"

 

A glance around told Vex all he needed to know. Although most of the gunships had already taken off, the remaining loading crew and pilots had turned in their direction, alerted by the unexpected sound of gunfire. Armed security personnel were pounding towards them in a hurry. The smuggler double-timed it towards the gunship, tossing his kit into the rear cockpit and tumbling in. He pulled down the canopy shield as Noonan cycled up the engines. Vex could see the back of Noonan's head right in front of him in the forward cockpit, and the familiar dread returned. He glanced to the mercenary's bleeding shoulder. Would it look like that? Worse?

 

"Emperor, we're surrounded!" Noonan screamed in frustration, skipping the preflight and switching the fuel to minimum choke.

 

"Powering up weapon systems!" Vex reported. He had piloted many atmospheric craft in his day, and they all were more or less the same. Green lights indicated full ammunition and no blockages in the hoppers. "All four cannons green!"

 

"Fire you idiot!" Noonan screamed.

 

Without thinking, without second-guessing his actions, Vex pushed the firing stud. The four autocannons cycled up and spat a hailstorm of high-caliber munitions across the pads. The advancing security teams dove for cover as the projectiles sliced into their ranks, cutting men in half wherever they landed. He held the firing stud down, screaming aloud as adrenaline poured through his bloodstream, spit flying from his mouth. The continuous fire kept the teams suppressed as Noonan jerked up on the thrusters, taking the gunship up into the air so violently Vex's stomach lurched. He let go of the firing stud as the ground sped away from them. How many men had he killed? it didn't matter, he decided. They would have killed him if they could have. He shouldn't feel guilty. Still, how many? A half dozen?

 

His head spun, his senses slowly returning to him. They were moving now, pushing away from the pads and into the lower reaches of the hive. The vox was alive with frantic queries from the pads.

 

"How bad are you hit?" He called to Noonan.

 

"It hurts like a sonnavabitch, in case you couldn't tell!" Noonan screamed back.

 

Vex glanced down at the auspex screens before him. So far they had no pursuers, but that would change very quickly. He had to inform Durmanhoth that their extraction was about to get a lot hotter. The smuggler pulled on his vox headset and dialed in the secret channel the Alpha Legion operatives were using. He recalled the callsigns Balchus had taught him, and spoke them breathlessly into the mic.

 

"Hydra One, this is Hydra Three."

 

"Hydra Three, this is Hydra One. Go." The deep voice replied. Vex suppressed a shudder.

 

"We had a problem. We were exposed when leaving the pad. We won't be able to wait at the rendezvous point for you, they'll be all over us."

 

"Understood, we will have to adapt." The stern voice answered. The confidence it conveyed gave Vex a small measure of comfort. "Maintain an elusive holding pattern. You will have to meet us halfway and pick us up under fire. Relaying coordinates now."

 

 

************

 

 

Durmanhoth relayed the coordinates and the closed the link before the smuggler could reply. The plan had faltered, as plans inevitably did to some degree. He recalled the teachings of the twin primarchs. He would not rage and beat his operatives like members of other legions when things did not go to plan. He would adapt. He would just have to buy more time.

 

"I repeat!" The voice called over the voxspeakers mounted outside the bank. "We have the building surrounded! You are advised to throw down your weapons and surrender. There is no other way out!" Durmanhoth listened idly to the voice of the Arbites commander. In the intervening hour since their arrival, an Arbites detachment had finally managed a response. That response now lined the exterior of the bank in a semi-circle of Arbitrator-pattern Chimeras, each one surrounded by a cluster of black-visored Imperial Judges. There were perhaps two-dozen of them, and more would be coming. It wouldn't be long until a team attempted entry.

 

Durmanhoth watched them from within the bank. They had yet to see him, and therefore had little idea the threat that was facing them. In a way, he pitied their zealous devotion to law and order. He now stood alone in the lobby. Balchus and the Black Coats had taken the bank manager down to the safe deposit sublevel of the Imperialis Donativum. The remaining hostages were still on their faces, whimpering in his presence. Durmanhoth ignored them. He blink-clicked the vox channel over to Balchus's frequency.

 

"Hydra Two, this is Hydra One. The Arbites have set up outside. Status?"

 

"Hydra One, this is Two. We've narrowed down the boxes to a dozen or so, but we'll have to breach them all individually. Any explosion that's too large may destroy the Rampant."

 

"How much more time do you need?" Durmanhoth asked.

 

"Twenty minutes. Can you give us that long?" Balchus asked.

 

"Yes." Durmanhoth replied, cutting the link. His head turned towards the hostages. He activated his vox speakers. "When the shooting starts, run out of here as fast as you can. Anyone left in here when I return will be shot." Some hostages risked a glance up at the traitor marine. None spoke a word.

 

"Come out and surrender peaceably, and your sentence may be reduced." The voice continued to drone from outside. The Alpha Legionnaire stalked forwards, moving his bulk out of the lobby through the massive hole in the entry that had been plowed through by the armored truck. Slowly, unhurriedly, Durmanhoth strode into view of the Arbites, each step crushing stone and clomping loudly like the steps of a god. Atop the ruined marble steps of the bank he stood, motionless.

 

The assembled Arbites stared at him, their disbelief an almost physical thing hanging over them. The targeting arrays in Durmanhoth's ancient armor spun over the cordon of judges, settling finally on the commander who held the mircophone of the vox horn. His visored head was magnified, his vital signs presented on the Alpha Legionnaire's heads-up display.

 

Durmanhoth felt the slimey presence of Heartrender in his mind, and he realized his free hand was touching the sword through the scabbard.

 

Are you going to kill them for me, my love? Such things you do for me.

 

"Drop your weapons and surrender!" The commander finally called out, breaking the silence.

 

Durmanhoth toggled his vox speakers to full volume. "Kill me if you can, you loyalist bastards!" The reaper autocannon attached to his right arm roared, and the killing began.

Algorithm Battle-Brother

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"Fall on your knees,

I hear the horrid voices,

Of someone else's angels."

 

The explosion shook the confines of the safe deposit room, the seventh of it's kid. The chubby manager whimpered, sinking to his knees in Grayson's grip. The Black Coat closed his eyes against the gritty blowback. He hauled the manager back to his feet as the dust cleared.

 

"Stand up, damn you! You're too damn heavy to keep ahold of as it is!" He growled.

 

Balchus set his teeth, trying to shut out the cacophonous radio chatter he was picking up over the Arbites frequencies. From what he could hear, Durmanhoth was in hot battle with the judges on the streets above, and was raising serious hell. Still, as powerful as his master was, he could not endure alone forever. He stepped back into the blasted out room, hoping that this time they had picked the right deposit box. Rius stepped inside alongside Balchus, while Anders held his autogun on the corridor leading back up to the lobby.

 

Crushed stone and steel crunched under his feet as he stepped inside. Mangled remains of the deposit boxes that they had already tried, as well as the objects they contained, lay scattered everywhere. They were using smaller breaching charges to avoid damaging the contents of each box, but the trial and error process was taking too long. Balchus's eyes fixed on the smoking hole that had been box #22-50, their latest attempt.

 

"Come on, you bastard. Please be the one." He reached a questing hand into the smoking hole, and his heart sank as they found only on a handful of papers. He pulled them out, and stared in anger down at the document that read "Last Will and Testament".

 

"Damn it!" Rius snarled as Balchus showed him the paper. "We're never going to find this damn thing!"

 

Grayson frowned, the big man watching from the doorway. The mercenary smacked the manager along the back of his head, eliciting another whimper. "Tell us which one, you bastard! I know you know!"

 

"I swear! I don't!" The manager protested.

 

"You do. You know!" Rius yelled.

 

"Everyone be quiet!" Balchus barked. "He doesn't! We've been over this! It's almost a foregone conclusion that the rogue trader would have deposited under a false identity anyway. We have to do this the hard way."

 

"Even the big bastard that you got outside, that...space marine, Emperor I still can't believe that one, can't hold out forever!" Anders called from the hall. "Sooner or later the judges will get around him, and then we'll be in a world of hurt."

 

Balchus pulled another breaching charge from his dufflebag, choosing another box at random.

 

"Trust me, if you could see the fight going on outside, you'd see a world of hurt."

 

 

***********

 

The reaper autocannon shells tore through the air, the bark of their discharge echoing through the enclosed streets with concussive force. One. Two. Three. Four judges pitched off their feet in the first sweep of the weapon, their bodies pulverized by the massive shells. The rest sought more certain cover behind their chimeras, raising their shotguns and lasguns at the approaching behemoth. He felt nothing as he killed them. A series of targets swirled over his heads up display, vital signs showing up before he reduced their numbers to zero with torrent of controlled fire. The return-fire was negligible as the hostages from the bank swirled out around him, blocking firelanes. Durmanhoth exploited the small opening. The Arbites had lost fourteen critical seconds before they were able to return fire without harming any civilians.

 

Durmanhoth felt wrong. He felt utterly deprived of emotion or sensation. Even in the face of the lasrounds that burned and hissed against the terminator armor, he was possessed by a need to remove his helmet, as though the helmet itself was what deprived him of sensation. He felt that if he could smell the blood in the air, hear the weapons fire more clearly, then perhaps he would feel the battle thrill. He knew that his astartes physiology was pumping his veins full of combat stimulants, and that they were operating as intended. His glands functioned in a biological sense, but still he felt nothing.

 

A warning rune winked at the edge of his display. A major heat source threatened to penetrate his armor on the right side. The Alpha Legionnaire turned, identifying the multi-laser mounted atop the Chimera as the threat. Red light winked angrily from the turrent, crackling against his right pauldron. He raised the autocannon in that direction, hosing the turret with shells. The first few did little appreciable damage. Durmanhoth kept the firing stud depressed, feeling the kick of the weapon on his arm and yet feeling no thrill from it. Then the mutli-laser's barrel ruptured, spinning away. The Chimera kept firing, but with it's coolant coil sheared off the remainder of the barrel fused shut, rendering the weapon useless.

 

"Try harder!" He bellowed at the judges. "Cause me pain!" He fired at a judge that scurried between Chimeras. The man's visored head exploded in a red mist.

 

As though in reply, Durmanhoth's enchanced hearing picked out a dull thump over the cacophony of the firefight. As he turned his head to identify the noise, a krak grenade detonated at his feet. His autosenses flared in response to the blinding heat that seared before him, and his armor's autostabilizer struggled to keep him upright in the face of the grenade's shockwave. Warning runes winked, indicating armor breaches along both legs. He was dully aware of shrapnel from his own armor embedded in his right leg, enough to cripple a mere mortal. Durmanhoth shifted his weight to the injured leg, checking if the bone was intact enough to continue moving at full speed. It was.

 

Clinically, detached, the traitor marine continued his graceless butchery. He eschewed cover, simply striding back and forth, picking targets and pouring shots into them like thunderbolts. Lasbolts and hard slugs from shotguns punched into his armor in a constant rain, stripping and burning off the blue-green paint of his legion.

 

Nothing meant anything. He couldn't take it anymore.

 

Of course you can't.

 

He couldn't help himself. Durmanhoth's free hand pulled Heartrender from it's scabbard. The purple tendrils cracked and split the tactical dreadnought armor enclosing his fist, interfacing with his nervous system. Sensation came screaming into body. Adrenaline now suddenly had a distinct taste. The rush of pain from his injured leg and the chemical tang of the pain suppressants pounded through him with each beat of his twin hearts. His pupils dilated as he regarded the judges arrayed before him, and he smiled.

 

He smiled as the munitions impacted his body, threatening to stagger him backwards should his auto-stabilizers fail. A laugh began rising deep inside his chest. Yes. This was war.

 

He fired again, raking the side of another chimera. The rounds buckled and then punctured the vehicle's hull. He saw every spark fall from the ruptured steel. The kick of the heavy weapon sent thunder though his body. Durmanhoth allowed the laugh to escape his lips, and blink-clicked the disengage rune for his helmet. It's magnetic seal broken, the helmet snapped off on it's own accord, clattering to the street and leaving his face exposed to the air. Sound rushed in like water, as did the stink of cordite and the coppery tang of spilled blood.

 

He was alive again.

 

I can give you more. Show me to them.

 

Durmanhoth held the demon weapon aloft for the judges to see as he stalked towards the center of their line, lasbolts hitting his gorget dangerously close to his face. He felt the weapon pulsing in his hands like an organ, and felt his blood draining from his body and into the weapon. The neural interfaces in his armor confirmed this was indeed the case. The weapon was drinking his blood.

 

Then suddenly there was a bright pink flash, and the air was filled with the hard shriek of a disembodied voice. The voice was that of a deranged crone, and rang in the ears of everyone who looked upon the weapon.

 

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

 

The voice repeated the message again, cutting even above the gunfire, and the repeated yet again. As Durmanhoth stepped around a devastated marble column, he staggered under the impacts of a heavy-bolter embedded in the hull of another Chimera. His armor chipped away in flying ceramite shards, and he turned his undamaged pauldron into the torrent and returned fire.

 

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

 

Another voice now joined that of the crone, speaking with her in time. It was the voice of a young man, his voice accented with the High Gothic of an aristocrat. Both voices now repeated the message relentlessly in unison as Durmanhoth attacked.

 

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

 

Another warning from his mind-impulse link flared just before Durmanhoth destroyed the heavy bolter. A shotgun slug had struck a damaged portion of his breastplate. Multiple rib fractures. The pain thrilled him, and he felt himself moving at a speed that the armor should have restricted.

 

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

 

A third and final voice, that of a little girl, joined the crone and the old man. Heartrender howled the words through the currents of the warp, and Durmamhoth could see that the demon's sorcery was having an effect on the Arbites beyond mere fear. Their movements became sluggish as they sought new cover. Men stood with lasguns that had run out of charge, and rather than reload they simply stood, stupefied. Others fumbled their words as they called in reinforcements. Durmanhoth even watched with amusement as one judge pulled his sidearm and shot himself in the face, a victim of some private, subtle influence of Heartrender.

 

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

 

"Hydra One!" Came the crackling, excited voice of Balchus over the vox. "This is Hydra Two! We have the package! Repeat, we have found the package."

 

A lasround smacked Durmanhoth square in the forehead. Had he been a mortal, the blow would surely have killed him. As an astartes, his reinforced skull had stopped the lasbolt from injuring his brain. Instead, blinding light filled his vision as his skull fractured at the point of impact. Blood spilled down his exposed face, too voluminous to be cauterized. The pain was extreme, and Durmanhoth was flooded with sensation. His fired the autocannon blind as blood pooled into his eyes, sweeping the weapon wildly left and right.

 

"Hydra One? Do you read?"

 

"Die! Die knowing your Emperor is a lie!" Durmanhoth screamed, emotion filling every word. "Die as He On Earth is dead!"

 

"Hydra One, I'm not reading you. We are moving to extract you. Stand by." Balchus's voice faded as the link was cut. The words were muddled to the Alpha Legionnaire, their meaning murky, as though spoken underwater. All there was for him was the present. There was only now.

 

He wanted to die. He wanted to know what death felt like.

 

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

 

His neuro-impulses embedded in his armor warned him that the ammo feed for his autocannon was nearly spent. Durmanhoth heard nothing. He moved with impossible speed, even for a space marine, and especially for one as heavily armored as he. Heartrender filled him with a celerity so unnatural that judges stood stunned as the traitor marine vaulted a heap of rubble and into their midst before they could reposition. Heartrender swept out and decapitated the nearest judge. He saw him die. He felt him die.

 

Another slug caught Durmanhoth in the knee, shattering the bone. The pain fueled his next blow, and he cut the shooter in half. He aimed and fired the autocannon into judges that scattered before him. He held down the firing stud even when there was no target peeking out of cover. The buck of the weapon thrilled him.

 

The weapon clicked empty.

 

Durmanhoth growled, disengaging the weapon from his armor. The reaper autocannon dropped to the street with a clatter, and now he gripped Heartrender two-handed. He was dimly aware of the sound of a starting engine coming from the bank.

 

His blood-filled eyes locked on the redeployed lines of judges, now taking cover between the two functional Chimeras. In the distance he heard sirens wailing. More were coming. Let them come, he thought.

 

Let's kill more of them.

 

Durmanhoth charged the line as fast as the demon's vigor would allow, snarling as incoming fire opened dozens of minor injuries all over his body. His shattered leg screamed as broken bone stabbed into raw tissue with every step. His mind-impulse link blared warnings into his brain until the damaged unit shut down completely, his armor losing power. The Alpha Legionnaire staggered halfway to the line of judges, falling to his knees. His head sagged, and as he looked down he saw the cratered mess of his armor hanging in heaps about his bleeding body.

 

The judges swept up from cover to finish the job.

 

The armored truck barreled out of the Imperial Donativum, bounding up and down as it trundled down the steps. The massive bulk of the truck skidded to a halt between the stricken traitor marine and the closing Arbites. The rear door hung open, and Balchus leaned out, aiming his autogun. He fired off a burst of shots at the surprised judges, winging one of them and causing the rest to stagger back into cover. Rius joined him at the rear door, taking potshots at the fleeing judges, his autogun bucking.

 

Balchus's panicked face turned to his downed master.

 

"Lord! Get up! Let's go!"

 

 

********

 

Balchus was stunned by what he saw when Durmanhoth looked up at him. His face, apart from being horrifically injured, was completely deformed. His eyes had grown to large, black pupils that filled his sockets. A large, purple tongue forked out of his mouth and licked at the air languidly, and his master smiled at him with a mania he had never seen before.

 

"Loyal Balchus." He smiled. "We are scourges on the Imperium. The Dark Prince loves us."

 

Balchus grit his teeth, never having seen this behavior, or heard these words. Still, now was not the time to dwell on such thoughts. Return fire from the Arbites banged hard off the armored hull of the truck, and Grayson was screaming that it was time to leave.

 

"Let's go! We have the Rampant! Remember the mission!"

 

The words seemed to have some effect on the Alpha Legionnaire. His manic, unnatural eyes blinked, the purple tongue moving back inside his mouth. "The mission." He repeated.

 

"The mission!" Balchus called back. "Hydra Dominatus!"

 

Durmanhoth shuddered, his damaged armor hissing as he rose to his feet again. With an effort that looked like it pained him, he returned the demonic sword to it's scabbard. "Hydra Dominatus". He repeated, his voice taking on it's usual grim tone again.

 

Durmanhoth of the Alpha Legion clambered into the armored truck, the modified vehicle sagging to compensate for his massive weight. Grayson gunned the engine, turning the truck around and barreling away from the judges. The traitor marine collapsed in a heap in the back of the truck. Balchus and Rius continued firing from the opened rear door as the vehicle sped away, the forboding sound of approaching sirens blaring in the distance.

Algorithm Battle-Brother

Algorithm

Posted
  • Author
Posted

I'm flattered that you guys are enjoying the story! Your readership is my motivation to continue, so thank you all. I have an ending in mind and it's coming shortly. I promise I won't reward your reading and feedback with a story that drags forever.

 

Thank you guys again!

 

-A-

Kol Saresk Venerable Brother

Kol Saresk

Posted
Posted
Sadly, since it is posted on the web, it is already void. Something about copyright issues.

 

Unfortunate certainly, but nothing to stop Algorithm from submitting something else just as epic :lol:

Oh yeah definitely, I'd love to see more stuff like this coming out of BL. Don't get me wrong, most of it is amazingly good, but there is so little of it that draws you in hook, line and sinker for the entire story like Algorithm does.

 

I'm flattered that you guys are enjoying the story! Your readership is my motivation to continue, so thank you all. I have an ending in mind and it's coming shortly. I promise I won't reward your reading and feedback with a story that drags forever.

 

Thank you guys again!

 

-A-

Idk, I might like to see this as a never ending story.

Algorithm Battle-Brother

Algorithm

Posted
  • Author
Posted

"They're sending two gunships after us!" Kylone Vex called out to Noonan. The smuggler cranked up the volume on the gunship's vox system, pressing one end of the headset closer to his ear. He heard the orders going out from the Gravus Hive Security headquarters. They were to be shot down on sight.

 

"Of course they are, we just killed a half dozen of them." Noonan worked the trim on the gunship, sweeping it around the avenues of the upper hive, keeping an altitude of two hundred feet above the streets at all times. The Black Coat blinked the blur from his eyes, trying to focus on the instrument panel in spite of the pain from his pulverized shoulder. Soon he knew the adrenaline would begin to wear off, and then he'd be in a real world of hurt. "How much further?"

 

Vex glanced down one of the three monitors built into the back of Noonan's seat. The green cogitator displayed a series of solid coordinates, indicating the point that Durmanhoth had commanded them to pick up the rest of the team. A set of blinking numbers below those indicated their current position. The numbers were close to syncing up.

 

"We should be on them in three or four minutes! How's the arm?"

 

"Piss off." Noonan snarled back.

 

******

 

The armored truck bucked wildly as is sped down the hive's thoroughfares. Balchus leaned out the back door, bracing his autogun against his hip and firing one-handed out at the pair of pursuing Arbites attack bikes. His free hand was wrapped tightly around the steel handholds within the truck's cargo area, the only bracing point that prevented him from tumbling out onto asphalt that whipped past. Rius stood with him, holding on in a similar fashion as he took potshots with his autopistol.

 

Their shots were having little effect, most of them pinging from the bulletproof armaglass that made up the windscreen on the attack bikes. The visored judges sped after them, each bike equipped with a built-in heavy stubber that could be fired with the press of a button. The weapons boomed, and Balchus ducked back inside the truck as hard rounds ricocheted from the vehicle's exterior.

 

Rius wasn't fast enough.

 

Balchus struggled to keep himself upright as he watched a line of blossoming exit wounds explode from Rius's back as the stubber rounds hit home. The mercenary's body shuddered backwards like an errant marionette before the momentum of the truck pitched it forward out of the hatch. Balchus heard the thump of the man's body hitting the road, and saw the Arbites swerve around the corpse before continuing pursuit.

 

"Faster, damn it!" He yelled at Grayson.

 

"I'm lucky I haven't rolled this damn thing as it is! Any faster and you can forget about turning!" Grayson barked back from the cab.

 

"Forget the autogun." Durmanhoth growled, laying in a pool of his own blood and holding his body upright with one massive arm. "You're wasting your time. Use the pipe bombs." The astartes kicked Rius's dufflebag across the floor to Balchus.

 

"Here, cover me!" Balchus yelled to Anders, tossing him the autogun. The mercenary caught it, checking the load on the mag and taking Balchus's place at the open rear doors. Anders regarded the blood spatter that lined the wall of the truck where Rius once stood, and cursed. After a moment, he began firing again.

 

Balchus's hands worked frantically in the dufflebag, noting that he had two pipebombs. He pressed the arming wires into both, and checked the frequency on the detonator. He ensured that the massive gold and green microchip that was the Rampant was still safely sealed in the miniature lockbox they had found it in. He pushed the box back down into the dufflebag.

 

"Shut up. Not another word from you." Durmanhoth hissed.

 

Balchus glanced up in surprise at his stricken master. "Lord?"

 

The astartes was glancing at the blade belted at his waist. He met Balchus's eyes with a hint of irritation. "Nothing. Kill our tail, we're almost at the extraction point.

 

Balchus leapt up again, steadying himself against the bucking motions of the truck, and took step after careful step back towards the truck's rear doors. The two attack bikes came back into view, and Balchus ducked in time with Anders as another fusillade of shots spanged off the truck's rear.

 

"Reloading!" Anders yelled, closing one of the two rear doors and dropping into a seated position behind it. As the shots from the Arbites abated, Balchus moved quickly up to the door, stepping around Anders as he fumbled with another magazine. He knew he had to be precise. If the bombs exploded in front of the attack bikes, the armaglass would deflect the shrapnel and the Arbites would most likely be spared. He had to detonate the weapons as they bounced alongside the bikes if they were to have any effect.

 

Without hesitating he tossed the first pipebomb, thumbing down the detonator's button as it bounced neatly between the two attack bikes.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Balchus swore. A dud. In his entire career, both as an intelligence agent for the Inquisition and as an operative of the Alpha Legion, he had only ever had two bombs fail to detonate. This was the third. What luck.

 

He heard the report of gunshots close by, and Balchus realized that Anders was up again, throwing open the other door once more to lay down covering fire with the autogun. The attack bikes swerved, sparks flying from the armaglass as the hard rounds bounced ineffectually off. The Arbites brought their vehicles around, lining up another deadly shot with the heavy stubbers that would probably see both Balchus and Anders dead.

 

Last chance,

 

Balchus tossed the second pipe bomb from the truck, and this time when he pushed the detonator's activation stud he was rewarded with a cacophonous thud. Ball bearings cut one Arbites to ribbons straight away, the man screaming as he toppled from his bike, his already ruined body grinding down to paste as he impacted the speeding road. The second bike swerved wildly as the driver lost control. The Arbites panicked, loosing off a string of shots as his bike careened away. Balchus made to duck back into the truck, but Grayson took a particularly hard turn at precisely the wrong moment. The operative's stomach lurched as he pitched forward towards the speeding asphalt. He hands pinwheeled wildly, seeking purchase on anything to arrest his fall. One hand caught the inner latch of the door. The door swung with his weight as Balchus tumbled out of the truck, his legs impacting the road and dragging. Balchus screamed as he felt the flesh of his legs tearing away, and he struggled to maintain his grip on the door handle. The detonator flew out of his other hand as he reached to grab ahold of some other part of the truck. The pain was unbearable, the hard material of his pants making a growling noise as it was ripped away.

 

A large hand clamped over his wrist, hauling him back inside the truck so hard it dislocated his shoulder. Balchus screamed in agony as he was jerked up and off the road with tremendous force. He saw the face of Durmanhoth as he was dragged roughly back into the vehicle, the astartes on his feet again, gripping his operative with one hand. The other hand clutched at a hideous wound in the giant's chest.

 

Durmanhoth looked down at his wheezing, agonized operative. "Your wounds will not kill you if they are treated."

 

"Good to know." Balchus spat through gritted teeth, fighting against the raw agony in his legs. Scraps of flesh hung from the torn clothing, blood pooling rapidly around his prone body.

 

"Oh, great, another steaming pile of grox crap!" Grayson yelled from the cabin.

 

"More bad news?" Anders asked, eyeing Balchus's wounds with trepidation.

 

"Roadblock ahead! Looks like three Arbites Chimeras!"

 

"Stop the vehicle!" Durmanhoth barked.

 

"We're almost to the extraction point!" Grayson argued. "Maybe I can punch through!"

 

"Stop the truck right now, or I'll punch through your damned chest!" Durmanhoth roared.

 

The truck skidded to a halt, smoke rising from the burnt rubber of it's tires. Buildings and tenements loomed all around as the battered, bullet-riddled truck came to a stop roughly five hundred meters from the Arbites road block.

 

"My integrated communications are damaged." Durmanhoth said, casually stooping to remove Balchus's commbead and pressing it into his own ear. "Hydra Three, this is One."

 

"Hydra One, this is Three."

 

"We're almost to the extraction point, but the road's blocked off. Maintain a holding pattern, and when things die down land and pick us up at these new coordinates." Durmanhoth spoke the coordinates quickly.

 

"What do you mean 'when things die down'?" Vex asked.

 

"You'll see." Durmanhoth replied, switching frequencies. "Dynasty, this is Hydra One."

 

"Reading you." Captain Devlin's voice answered.

 

"Captain Devlin, you are to arm lance batteries and open fire on the following ground position." Durmanhoth read off another series of coordinates. After a moment, Devlin answered.

 

"Lord, from what my staff are telling me these coordinates are less than a tenth of a click from your current position." Devlin replied, concern evident in his voice.

 

"That is correct, captain."

 

"There is substantial likelihood you'll be hit. That sort of precision-"

 

"Is why the Imperium doesn't deserve you. That sort of precision is exactly what you are going to give me, isn't it captain? You are going to show me why it was wrong for Battlefeet Cadia to pass you over for promotion so many times."

 

"Even if I hit these coordinates precisely, the entire local fleet will converge on the Dynasty." Devlin protested.

 

"Then you'd should begin warming up the warp drives also, shouldn't you?" Durmanhoth answered laconically. A period of silence followed.

 

"Yes lord. As you wish. Dynasty is plotting firing solutions. I suggest you hold onto something."

  • 3 weeks later...

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