Scribarium Short Stories [21/11/2015]

[Hubbus]

Hello there fellow fiction writers and reader!  ~8) 

 

It took me some time and motivation to get my sorry butt onto this train, but I decided it is already a good time to join the international communities of fans and start sharing the stories from the depths of my drawers with all of you willing to give them a read. I really hope to see some opinions here, good critiques, bah, maybe even someone will actually like the read? This topic I reserve for my short stories, since I have plenty of them and they should fit snuggly into a single topic, really. Let's start with a story I wrote for polish competition for Warhammer Fanfiction, one that somehow managed to win the round. The topic was "Number 20" and so I decided to write a short tidbit from the life of a regular guardsmen and his predicted life expectancy... But not spoling... Hope you will have fun reading this.

 

 

MEAT

 

+ Chronostamp: - 03:00 to deployment +

 

Janus was trembling. And not simply because the entire transport vehicle was shaking like an otter in the winter wind, groaning with the abused metal… Not even because the roar of the generators and the steady clinking of the engines clouded all thoughts. Janus was trembling from fear and excitement, from glorious yet horrifying anticipation. He is a Guardsmen. He is a soldier in the service of the divine Emperor, his weapon, his will manifested! He recalled these words, oh yes, he was smiling brightly with his eyes shimmering with faith when the Commissair-General Karat Onar made his invigorating oratory for all the regiments through the vox network. How he spoke about their courage, their mettle, they artistry in the ways of war to be many tools of his holy will. These were good words…

 

But they did not stamped out the doubts. Or the fear. Janus felt a righteouss pride in being a part of a famous on entire Grakhus first unit, known as the 42 Grakhian Volunteers, but this pride was rapidly dwindling and crumbling when the two thousand man of their regiment found their place on board titanic warships of the Imperial Navy, when they could gorge their eyes on the weaponry, tanks, machinery and the colors of the regiments known through pretty much entire human-ruled galaxy! This awe and dread, when he spotted for the first time the cyborgized soldiers of the Skitarii clans, modified troops in the service of the secretive Machine Cult. This elation and jealousy when his officers and seniors got huffy about the quality of arms and armours of such renowed elite as Elisian Drop Troopers… And of course the ridiculing smirks on the faces and snarky comments of those famous military branches. One such notion stuck heavily in his mind, a simple sentence dropped on them when they marched beside a tanned, rugged loking veteran… “Here comes the meat.”

 

Janus could not manage to shake this simple words off his mind, no matter how many commissair speeches or officers promises he listened to, no matter what outrageously stupid boasts and bragging went through his buddies in the unit. Meat. There was no hiding the fact that in comparison to all of this glorious regiments, that between the Elisians or the dreary Death Korps their own regiment looked rather shoddy… More gangers in old rags. Like an unruly, armed in clubs and maces rabble. A filler. Cannon fodder.

 

And the fact that at the very moment he was stored inside a Crassus class land transport - a huge, slow, heavily armoured can, which most likely served for a few centuries - was not lifting his spirits up. Maybe because they were going to be the first wave. Mostly because of that, really…

 

And just then, when he finished the thought, the heavy bolters mounted atop the big machine roared their fury, shooting at the enemy yet unseen for the guardsmen stored inside. Janus felt his hands grow sweaty, and so he clamped them down firmly on his las-gun…

 

“It begins...:”

 

+ Chronostamp: -00:23 to deployment +

 

He thought that the noise filling the inside of the transporter, crawling slowly through the rocky desert, was overwhelming. He was mistaken. True cacophony welcomed him and became almost a physical pain. The roar of the bolters was long forgotten, utterly overtaken by a true concerto of sounds - from the hissing notes of the disargches coming from the high energy weapons of xenos origin, through the metallic ringing of the bullets shaving off flakes of paint from the armoured behemoth of his transport up to the air-splitting dissonances of the plasma bolts soaring the skies. It was a true storm of sounds, which managed to paint a truly nigthmarish visions in the canvas of his mind…

 

Just then the Crassus ceased it’s motion and stood still. Hiss of steam for a moment dulled the cacophony of war. The assault ramp groaned, the pneumatics thick as human thigh began to move. Stiffling, hot air found it’s way inside the vehicle, and with it, the flashing of explosions, raging fire and las blasts all over the place.

 

And with it, the screams of the dying.

 

+ Chronostamp: 00:03 +

 

Time slowed down. Janus could feel each single beat of his heart fully in his chest. He felt the small hair on his arms standing fully to attention. He moved. There was no choice. An order was dully noted somehwere deep in the calmer, colder regions of his mind, which simply was so drilled to it, that it was able to put his body into motion before his consioussness managed to realize that something was happening. He ran. And with him, his team, his sarge, his buddies… All of them were running, a rapid, lungs-burning sprint, just to reach this pile of rocks, just to huddle behind a cover. He could not see any enemies. He heard them though. Hollow, primitive ooks and howls, joyous growl and sharp, edgy language of the greenskins flew at them from all directions, like if the orks could win this war simply by being loud about it.

 

+ Chronostamp: 00:07 +

 

Ramkin was dead. He didn’t make it to the cover. The aim and accuracy of the foul xenos is a joke, they truly did not stand to the disciplined fire of the guardsmen, but before Ramkin could jump behind the rocks like the rest of the team one of the orks most likely brought to the field some big, fully automative machine gun, because suddenly through the regular sounds of their crude guns a new one entered, not unlike a saw only followed by a mechanical grind akin to the whole hive of hornets set loose. Ramkin was literally torn to shreds in the rain of lead. His blood was already dripping down to our impromptu cover. No one really paid it any attention. Janus however could not take his eyes of it… Well, at least to the moment when he felt a fist on his jaw, only to try to focus his gaze on his bellowing sarge, screaming at his face from a distance of maybe half an inch.

 

Need to push onward. Need to brake the enemy line. These are the orders. Move your asses. These are the orders.

 

+ Chronostamp: 00:12 +

 

We ran. The guys were dying one after another. Herus lost his leg. No one saw how it happenned, what struck him. He was running, he tripped, and after that he never stood back up, screaming like a wraith, crying in the growing pool of his own blood. Galamatan exploded when a small rocket, following clearly drunken trajectory, passed the face of the sarge by a hair width, scorching his cheek, only to hit the guardmen right in the chest, lifting him up in the air quite a few yards and then exploding, showering us all in a brief rain of guts and hot blood. Sarge was yelling at everything and everyone, he was cursing and calling the name of the Emperor, he was waving his chainsword around, he was urging us onward. He didn’t had to. We ran. From cover to cover, trying to find relief behind anything that looked solid… rubble, bigger chunks of stone, ruined, still smoking skeletons of Chimeras and ramshackle remnants of the greenskins own vehicles. Each jaunty sprint lasted maybe a few heartbeats. Each covered maybe a few yards of land… And with each there was less and less of us.

 

+ Chronostamp: 00:17 +

 

When we left the transport there was twenty of us. Now there were six, maybe seven. No time for an accurate countdown. We opened fire. First time we left the assault ramp of the Crassus. Red traces of our las-guns shoot into the billowing clouds of dust into the blurry silhouetted of our enemies. Truly a remarkable feeling. I never felt better in my entire life… All this fear, all this fury, all this hatred brew in us since the first day of drafting finally found a place to vent, to burn through, to be used with a weapon in my hands in a cause that was truly righteous, to crush and kill the spiteful enemy. We were shooting blindly. As soon as any shape seemed to appear in the dusy, oily smog, we shoot. Sometimes we were rewarded with a pig-like groan of pain. Good. Great. Die. Die in the name of the Emperor! Die from the hands of Janus, the hero of the :cussing Imperium of Man!

 

Chronostamp: 00:19 +

 

Half of the charge left. That was the meaning of the red dial blinking on the side of the gun, when it happenned. When the head of the valiant sarge rolled next to my feet, flooding my boots with warm blood. Orks weren’t shooting for a few heartbeats now. Naively we believed that it was because we shoot them all down, that our accurate and deadly hail of las blasts forced their cowardly asses to retreat. Oh how funny that was for split of a second! Then they lurked from the cover of the thick smoke and dust, filling the air thanks to the march and ride of thousands of tanks and other war machines. Janus saw only one of them. Oh that was enough for him to drop his gun and scream from pure terror, just to reach for his combat knife with slow, shaking motion. It went out of the sheath like if it was sunken in thick glue, and to make it worse, after he finally pulled it out it looked like a tiny glint of metal barely able to cut open a can of iron rations in comparison to a massive slab of muscles that stood in front of him. In comparison to the monster with bull-like shoulders, oversized head, small, reddish eyes and nasty looking tusks. To a monster, which just laughed a guttural chortle like some bestial animal only to rise above his head a cleaver, a crude piece of metal that looked like if it was shaped with stone tools. Janus closed his eyes, bellow a furious battlecry and jumped onto the beast.

 

+ Chronostamp: 00:20 +

 

Janus was swallowing blood, his vision turned blurry. Life was leaking out of him, the pain somehow stopped bothering him, when the sudden felt of chill, no… freezing invided his bones. The duel laster maybe two heartbeats. Excitation and adrenaline pulsing in his body, when he managed to plunge the blade up to the handle into the shoulder of the big xenos. The angered fury in his triumphant cry, when he spotted dark ichor dripping down the arm of the monster. And then, a very brief moment of silence, fleeting and forgotten, when the beast simply laughter a throaty chuckle, when a fist the size of an Ogryn one landed on his chest, crushing his ribs, forcing the air out of his lungs, taking his senses away as much as his breath. He felt to his knees. He spat blood. His armour cracked like if it was made from some low quality plastics. Janus rised his gaze… And then he choked on his own blood when a massive cleaver struck next to his neck, going deep through his shoulder, crushing the bones and organs into a pulp, almost separating his entire arm from the body.

 

The beast didn’t even finish him off. It did not even take any kind of trophy. It did not even made any sound of joy or triumph. Nothing. It simply freed it’s crude weapon from his body with a sharp yank and then, ooking loudly, it went away, surely joining it’s grotesque brothers in mayhem, leavng him to just die out here, into the grasp of death hold that rapidly enclosed on him….

 

Janus smiled to himself, only to close his eyes after he checked his chrono-watch. One third of a minute. That is the entirety of his heroic career in the military.

 

“Meat.” He whispered.

[Machine God]

Nice read there, a couple of spelling mistakes and omissions but okay!

 

One less meat sack.

[paulJam]

Agreed. Good pace.

[Hubbus]

Hey thanks ;) I unfortunately still lack anyone perfectly fluent in English to proofread my hasty scribbles, but I am looking unto that. Glad you guys enjoyed - more are to come soon.

[deathspectersgt7]

A Good read enjoyed it.

[Hubbus]

Hello again! Whoa, it took me like, 1/4 of a year and a bit more to be done with the translation of my next story... More to come and hopefully sooner than later. This one is a little Empire vs. Tyranids story I wrote for the polish Story of the Month competition...

 

If you prefer to read at your leisure with a better format than the forum post: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1o9hqPygRybCpyEjvLhzxfPWCSeSFUEoFr1uyuG3g0Tw/edit?usp=sharing

 

 

For the Emperor!

 

The scream pierced even the shrieks of the dying. It was eerie, like if it eas more than mere sound, a power that seep through the ears directly to the brain, applying pressure on the spongy tissue, presssing the blood out of the orgsn, tearing apart all willpower, crumbling courage, stifling personslity... It was an inhuman, modulated low echo of icoming doom...

 

And the fall of a planet.

 

Lars could not believe his own legs. The fact that he managed to keep on running was at the moment an entirely abstract concept to his mind. All around him the rmenants of humanity were dying out in so many esoteric ways. Split open by the humming swords of bone, melting in a stinking mess of dissolved flesh, eaten alive by either colossal monsters from the darkest nightmares or by hives of tiny fleshesters carving tunnels in muscle and organs in a binge of gluttonous carnivory. Someone bellowed in mad agony, when an acidic green crystal punched through his chest only to sink into the armoured plating of a tankette, dissolving the ceramite armour like sugar in boiling eater. Someone else was rambling and gurgling some incorenets pleads and cries, choking on the fumes coming from his own rotting body, flesh and muscles peeling off his bones in flakes. Another one just managed a very animalistic squeal when two britally looking hooks pierced through his shoulders, strained on glistening tendons, only to pullthe victim into the mass of monsters...

 

The horde was shrieking, hissing, spitting and screaming infernally.

 

The tyranids invasion was extremely educational, Lars though as he slowly began to realise that he was losing his mind. See, thing is, that when you finally encounter one of them, you should know what to expect. In theory. Because you were attending sermons. Because the commisar preached. Because in their handy booklet they had all the information about the aliens, bah, even a crude picture drawn in it. He knew therefore that, look, a tyranid, simple space locust, xenos existing just to destroy and devour, aiming to topple the glorious imperium of mankind. They were just targets. To be exterminated, just like locust should.

 

It made sense, really. It is how it should be. But then, the monsters arrived. And everything just went straight to hell. Someone, day before the xenos descent, said with adamant spirit that the tyranids scum will brake against the millions of stalwart and well-trained guardsmen. That they will crush their teeth on the mighty fortresses, that their chitinous shells will crack under the threads of the blessed war machines. Lars just giggled feverishly under his breath, running down the narrow corridor, listening to the thumping of the heavy machine guns and the screams of the dying. That was good. Oh, how great they felt at that moment. He recalled the singing of Ykander. A good chap, a bit too narcisstic on the edges, a bit self-proclaimed poet, but when it came to the brawl, you could count on him. He said then that he cannot wait for the aliens to come. Well, :cuss, if he would be still alive Lars would crack his skull open for these words now.

 

He fell through the shaft and grabbed the steel ladder, sliding down with rapid, palms burning speed. The sounds of mayhem got significantly quieter… But the echoes of the monstrous roars still thudded in his mind, promising agony and death. So yeah, the monsters came, right. And suddenly all the “millions” of guardsmen found themselves in a heavy numerical disadvantage, because the Tyranids arrived in billions. From their hideous ships wave after wave of freshly created horror spilled on the planet survace, carpetting the horizon. If someone took down one of them, two new instantly popped out. The entire atmosphere reeked of xenos blood and guts. The sky blackened from the massive piles of burnt bodies, mile high, he could swear. But the monsters still attacked. Relentless and restless. Day. Night. Always.

 

And they were giving lessons. Lessons about nightmares. Because when he first saw these small, doglike beasts with huge fangs, he could shrug it off and claim, hey, sure, these are digusting, but he knew worse, right? He could recall the terrible arachnid warriors of Folga Secundus, with maws in their abdomens overfilled with thousands glistening fangs. These small tyranid bugs were barely bad by comparison. But then, new monsters came… Bigger. More malicious. Bizzare. Deadly. Some of them higher and bulkier than the legendary Astartes with elongated, spiky skulls and pulsing weaponry… Others huge, slowly slugging on four muscular limbs with massive cannons growing from their backs… Some others with leathery wings, raining acid down from the sky. Monstrocities multiplied day after day, and in a few of them, the whole landscape was like a picture taked by a mad artists who gazed into the depths of hell.

 

But it was hardly all. In fact, it was barely a warmup for this inhuman hive.

 

Lars locked the thick doors of the sluice behind him, panting heavily as he worked the big, creaky handle to let the locks click. Of course such obstacle would hold them maybe for a few moments, and that would be the best scenario… But he still felt better from doing it.

 

The heat was overwhelming.

 

Reactors of the city-fortress. He helped to raise them. A smile emereged on his face when the blast of almost scorching air blowed into his face. He remembered how they were built, he recalled how he lead transports of the colossal components of the mighty machinery. He remembered the washed out of life tech-adept who most likely had his sense of humour surgicaly removed and who was overseeing the work.

 

The heart of the dying planet.

 

***

 

Pitch black of space void tore apart with the soundless shriek of the reality coming off its seams, the multi-colored lights of the Empyeran psionic energies dissolving when they touched the matter of the realspace. The portal blossomed weakly, with a flicker, like a simple lamp at the end of its lifespan before it spat out a few space ships of baroque build and shapes, including one of massive proportions, the looks of a grand temple rich with towers and naves, hundreds of artillery turrets and a wide set of huge jet propulsion engines, glowing like tiny suns...

 

‘Here lies the border…’ said the quiet voice. A voice that suggested that the owner mind was drifting in a space far beyond the mortal grasp. A voice of someone who touched the aether way too often for the safeguard of his soul - an astropath, whose attachement to reality was a mere anchor dropped in the sea of souls. ‘No further. Not possible. Shadows. Shadows in the aether…’ he added sullenly.

 

‘Understood.’ this voice was different, harsh and deep, rumbling through the air. Gruff and unyielding to be sure, clearly used to being obeyed without veto. And so it was, as it belonged to the captain of the prestigious first company of the Sons of Medusa fleet chapter of the adeptus astartes, Argo Follex known to the mortals as the Iron Scourge. ‘How many days ahead of us in travel? Reltoza cannot wait and I reckon I should not be in need of reminding that to anyone.’ he added sharply, shooting a rather steely glare at the chief of navigation.

 

‘Yes, m’lord, we are doing what we can…’ the officer mumbled out, red on the face and visibly tense. He was pulling on the collar of his uniform and touched the medal he achieved during one of the previous campaings… a nervous tick that was not missed on the Follex attention. A tick that always preceeded bad news. ‘Unfortunately, uhm… we’ve got dropped quite far away from the system and uhm…’

 

‘I am not aware of the system called And Uhm.’ the towering astartes interrupted swiftly. ‘And I will not tolerate excuses. But we won’t try to bend the facts either. I am aware that we’ve dropped further away than I’d wish for, but that is not a reason to delay. How long?’

 

Oficer drgnął przerażony, pocąc się widocznie, patrząc na ogromną sylwetkę kapitana z przestrachem i absolutnym brakiem zrozumienia.

The officer trembled in dear, sweating profusely, glancing at the titanic figure of the captain in awed fear and utter lack of understanding.

 

‘How long what, m’lord?’

‘For the holy Throne, how long until we will reach the Reltoza orbit?’ a new voice joined in, not less harsh and gruff than that of the captain, owned by the sargeant Scypion, who was well known for his lack of patience and lack of tolerancy for those, who test it. ‘I really do not see how you could suffer such fools, Argo, if I was in your pla-’

 

‘But you are not. Thanks for such comments, let me add.’ the captain cut in swiftly with a rather nasty grin on his patriarchal features. The sargeant just sighed, shrugged and said nothing. The captain turned to the stunned nav officer and repeated ‘Days. How many?’

 

‘F-five m’lord.’ the officer finally stammered out. It was clear he was not used to being berated by the superior officers, even less so from the astartes. Truly a measly example of a human being, most likely got to his station by the family influence. Sad state of affairs… The captain sighed and waved a hand imperiously.

 

‘Commence then. In the next five days I need to see the planet through the glass visor. In any other outcome I reckon the sargeant Scypion will have a talk with you. And for the Emperor… Let us not be too late.’

 

The fleet sailed without a sound through the emptiness of space.

 

***

 

The time was running short.

 

The bulkhead which he closed tight behind him was already dripping with the hiss of molten metal with a quiet buzz of unnatural, hastened oxydation, the biochemical acids of the alien horrors eating through the bolts of the entrance.

 

He knew what he had to do, even if he was not technician.

 

There was a pipe. It was long and thick and run through the entire length of the gargantuan underground chambers. And beside the horrible heat beating with pulses from the massive plasma generators, the pipe was covered in frost and emanated puffs of steam from the ongoing battle of freezing coolants running inside touching the hot plates of the pipes.

 

That was exactly what he needed. Quickly he took off the belt of thermal grenades, cursing under the nose as he bound them in a right cluster with the steely rope from his backpack, numb fingers double checking the knots...

 

The hiss turned into a roar when the bulkhead entrance dropped on the metal floor with sickeningly splashing sound, the molten metal trickling over the edges of the rafter, the plasteel of the contrustion brightening from the heat. A head pushed through, huge and covered in bonelike plates. Grotesquely smallish eyes like black agates scanned the chamber and focused on him, a malignant inteligence twinking inside them. The monster hissed aggressively, lip curved to reveal horribly long fangs...

 

Lars screamed and then laughted madly. It was an involuntary reaction, but he lost control over himself more and more.

 

‘I had a dog once. It looked at me the same way when I forgot to put food in its bowl.’ he whispered to himself, and the monster replied by a throaty growl, pushing on the entrance and with the display of impossible strength getting in, simply tearing the entrance apart with its bulk.

 

‘Oh just fantastic. You know how much work it cost to build that? Oh well.’ he muttered manically with a flash of a grin. He released the safety pins of the grenades and tossed them at the pipe delivering coolant to the whole power plant of the planet. The bundle landed on the freezing surface and got stuck on the spot, caught by the forming ice.

 

- Przyprowadziłeś kumpli? Szkoda by było, gdyby nie wpadli, jak już tu są…

 

‘You brought friends?’ he mused with the deadly rictus of a smile, gazing at the incoming monster and the flood of lesser abominations coming inside ‘Good, good, it would be a shame for them not to visit since they are already here, right?’

 

The grenades flashed like miniature stars. The air thickened, the waves of blistering heat clashed with pure freeze which blasted freely from the hole in the pipe. Red flashes of alarm blared wildly in the vast chamber. ‘Seems we have a minute or so…’ Lars smirked at the towering monster over him with a crazed grin.

 

And then he died when the monster sheared him in two halves with a lazy swing of its massive bone scythe.

 

***

 

‘For the Throne… What was that?’

 

The surprise in the sargeant voice was as evident as the bright eruption of light in the darkness of space, clear and sharp, with the orange flare crowned by the violet flashes. Captain Follex brow furrowed. The dreaded vermin of Tyranid race did not operate in such a manner.

 

‘Master warpsighter? What can you tell me about this? Quick and short, if you please. The robustness of speech irritates me.’

 

Astropath just nodded like if he was in some sort of half-sleep, even when his widely opened, milky eyes trembled in their sockets, like if he was gazing into something horrible and astonishing at once. After a prolonged moment of uncomfortable and tense silence he just sighed and turn the foggy gaze towards the towering figure of the captain.

 

‘The mission. Not actual Reltoza no longer exist.’ he murmured.

 

The bridge of the ship went silent and brimming with lack of understanding.

 

‘What do you mean by ‘no longer exist’, astropath?’ the sargeant Scypion asked after a while in a hollow, dry voice. ‘My experience provide that planets do not cease to exist just like that. Speak up!’

 

‘We have a visual!’ some young officer of communication yelled out, breaching the usual code of conduit.

 

‘So what are you waiting for. On the hololit, right now!’

 

The three dimensional projection flickered above the desk, showing quite a blurry picture of a rather curious scene unfolding. It surely wasn’t a planet. There was a sphere there… Roughly, that is. Cracked horribly, utterly destroyed and pounded, still moving in its dying throes as the tectonical activity surely turn the surface into a hellish scape of utter destruction. The remnants of the planet was surrounded by a dust storms and bigger debris trying to lift of the gravitational pull of it’s sphere…

 

‘Reltoza, my lord, died with its defenders. And swallowed the xenos invaders with it…’ the astropath added after a brief moment in the same monotonous drone of a whisper.

 

The captain gaze lingered on the picture of the raging cosmic storm surrounding the ruined globe. The chance that anyone… anything could’ve survive such a cataclysm was pretty much impossible. His sullen silence was broken by the same young officer.

 

‘We have a communication packet. Recorded on the comm satelites of the planet. All of them are ruined, but the message survived in a scattered maner. Reconstructing it now…’ he said with tense tune in his voice and without asking for permission, he played the recording. The bridge fell into silence once more.

 

‘Lars Frans. One hundreth sixty regiment of Reltozian prime infantry, code 114-122-564. I am alone. Everyone is dead. I have no time. I am near the plasma cores. I will end this. For the Emperor.’

 

And the buzzing record fell silent.

 

Captain Argo Follex of the first company of the Sons of Medusa chapter of mighty astartes smiled grimly to himself and made a little nod.

 

“For the Emperor.’

 

 

[deathspectersgt7]

Once again ran out of likes. A good read.

[Hubbus]

Hello again! Whoa, it took me like, 1/4 of a year and a bit more to be done with the translation of my next story... More to come and hopefully sooner than later. This one is a little Empire vs. Tyranids story I wrote for the polish Story of the Month competition...

If you prefer to read at your leisure with a better format than the forum post: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1o9hqPygRybCpyEjvLhzxfPWCSeSFUEoFr1uyuG3g0Tw/edit?usp=sharing

For the Emperor!

The scream pierced even the shrieks of the dying. It was eerie, like if it eas more than mere sound, a power that seep through the ears directly to the brain, applying pressure on the spongy tissue, presssing the blood out of the orgsn, tearing apart all willpower, crumbling courage, stifling personslity... It was an inhuman, modulated low echo of icoming doom...

And the fall of a planet.

Lars could not believe his own legs. The fact that he managed to keep on running was at the moment an entirely abstract concept to his mind. All around him the rmenants of humanity were dying out in so many esoteric ways. Split open by the humming swords of bone, melting in a stinking mess of dissolved flesh, eaten alive by either colossal monsters from the darkest nightmares or by hives of tiny fleshesters carving tunnels in muscle and organs in a binge of gluttonous carnivory. Someone bellowed in mad agony, when an acidic green crystal punched through his chest only to sink into the armoured plating of a tankette, dissolving the ceramite armour like sugar in boiling eater. Someone else was rambling and gurgling some incorenets pleads and cries, choking on the fumes coming from his own rotting body, flesh and muscles peeling off his bones in flakes. Another one just managed a very animalistic squeal when two britally looking hooks pierced through his shoulders, strained on glistening tendons, only to pullthe victim into the mass of monsters...

The horde was shrieking, hissing, spitting and screaming infernally.

The tyranids invasion was extremely educational, Lars though as he slowly began to realise that he was losing his mind. See, thing is, that when you finally encounter one of them, you should know what to expect. In theory. Because you were attending sermons. Because the commisar preached. Because in their handy booklet they had all the information about the aliens, bah, even a crude picture drawn in it. He knew therefore that, look, a tyranid, simple space locust, xenos existing just to destroy and devour, aiming to topple the glorious imperium of mankind. They were just targets. To be exterminated, just like locust should.

It made sense, really. It is how it should be. But then, the monsters arrived. And everything just went straight to hell. Someone, day before the xenos descent, said with adamant spirit that the tyranids scum will brake against the millions of stalwart and well-trained guardsmen. That they will crush their teeth on the mighty fortresses, that their chitinous shells will crack under the threads of the blessed war machines. Lars just giggled feverishly under his breath, running down the narrow corridor, listening to the thumping of the heavy machine guns and the screams of the dying. That was good. Oh, how great they felt at that moment. He recalled the singing of Ykander. A good chap, a bit too narcisstic on the edges, a bit self-proclaimed poet, but when it came to the brawl, you could count on him. He said then that he cannot wait for the aliens to come. Well, , if he would be still alive Lars would crack his skull open for these words now.

He fell through the shaft and grabbed the steel ladder, sliding down with rapid, palms burning speed. The sounds of mayhem got significantly quieter… But the echoes of the monstrous roars still thudded in his mind, promising agony and death. So yeah, the monsters came, right. And suddenly all the “millions” of guardsmen found themselves in a heavy numerical disadvantage, because the Tyranids arrived in billions. From their hideous ships wave after wave of freshly created horror spilled on the planet survace, carpetting the horizon. If someone took down one of them, two new instantly popped out. The entire atmosphere reeked of xenos blood and guts. The sky blackened from the massive piles of burnt bodies, mile high, he could swear. But the monsters still attacked. Relentless and restless. Day. Night. Always.

And they were giving lessons. Lessons about nightmares. Because when he first saw these small, doglike beasts with huge fangs, he could shrug it off and claim, hey, sure, these are digusting, but he knew worse, right? He could recall the terrible arachnid warriors of Folga Secundus, with maws in their abdomens overfilled with thousands glistening fangs. These small tyranid bugs were barely bad by comparison. But then, new monsters came… Bigger. More malicious. Bizzare. Deadly. Some of them higher and bulkier than the legendary Astartes with elongated, spiky skulls and pulsing weaponry… Others huge, slowly slugging on four muscular limbs with massive cannons growing from their backs… Some others with leathery wings, raining acid down from the sky. Monstrocities multiplied day after day, and in a few of them, the whole landscape was like a picture taked by a mad artists who gazed into the depths of hell.

But it was hardly all. In fact, it was barely a warmup for this inhuman hive.

Lars locked the thick doors of the sluice behind him, panting heavily as he worked the big, creaky handle to let the locks click. Of course such obstacle would hold them maybe for a few moments, and that would be the best scenario… But he still felt better from doing it.

The heat was overwhelming.

Reactors of the city-fortress. He helped to raise them. A smile emereged on his face when the blast of almost scorching air blowed into his face. He remembered how they were built, he recalled how he lead transports of the colossal components of the mighty machinery. He remembered the washed out of life tech-adept who most likely had his sense of humour surgicaly removed and who was overseeing the work.

The heart of the dying planet.

***

Pitch black of space void tore apart with the soundless shriek of the reality coming off its seams, the multi-colored lights of the Empyeran psionic energies dissolving when they touched the matter of the realspace. The portal blossomed weakly, with a flicker, like a simple lamp at the end of its lifespan before it spat out a few space ships of baroque build and shapes, including one of massive proportions, the looks of a grand temple rich with towers and naves, hundreds of artillery turrets and a wide set of huge jet propulsion engines, glowing like tiny suns...

‘Here lies the border…’ said the quiet voice. A voice that suggested that the owner mind was drifting in a space far beyond the mortal grasp. A voice of someone who touched the aether way too often for the safeguard of his soul - an astropath, whose attachement to reality was a mere anchor dropped in the sea of souls. ‘No further. Not possible. Shadows. Shadows in the aether…’ he added sullenly.

‘Understood.’ this voice was different, harsh and deep, rumbling through the air. Gruff and unyielding to be sure, clearly used to being obeyed without veto. And so it was, as it belonged to the captain of the prestigious first company of the Sons of Medusa fleet chapter of the adeptus astartes, Argo Follex known to the mortals as the Iron Scourge. ‘How many days ahead of us in travel? Reltoza cannot wait and I reckon I should not be in need of reminding that to anyone.’ he added sharply, shooting a rather steely glare at the chief of navigation.

‘Yes, m’lord, we are doing what we can…’ the officer mumbled out, red on the face and visibly tense. He was pulling on the collar of his uniform and touched the medal he achieved during one of the previous campaings… a nervous tick that was not missed on the Follex attention. A tick that always preceeded bad news. ‘Unfortunately, uhm… we’ve got dropped quite far away from the system and uhm…’

‘I am not aware of the system called And Uhm.’ the towering astartes interrupted swiftly. ‘And I will not tolerate excuses. But we won’t try to bend the facts either. I am aware that we’ve dropped further away than I’d wish for, but that is not a reason to delay. How long?’

Oficer drgnął przerażony, pocąc się widocznie, patrząc na ogromną sylwetkę kapitana z przestrachem i absolutnym brakiem zrozumienia.

The officer trembled in dear, sweating profusely, glancing at the titanic figure of the captain in awed fear and utter lack of understanding.

‘How long what, m’lord?’

‘For the holy Throne, how long until we will reach the Reltoza orbit?’ a new voice joined in, not less harsh and gruff than that of the captain, owned by the sargeant Scypion, who was well known for his lack of patience and lack of tolerancy for those, who test it. ‘I really do not see how you could suffer such fools, Argo, if I was in your pla-’

‘But you are not. Thanks for such comments, let me add.’ the captain cut in swiftly with a rather nasty grin on his patriarchal features. The sargeant just sighed, shrugged and said nothing. The captain turned to the stunned nav officer and repeated ‘Days. How many?’

‘F-five m’lord.’ the officer finally stammered out. It was clear he was not used to being berated by the superior officers, even less so from the astartes. Truly a measly example of a human being, most likely got to his station by the family influence. Sad state of affairs… The captain sighed and waved a hand imperiously.

‘Commence then. In the next five days I need to see the planet through the glass visor. In any other outcome I reckon the sargeant Scypion will have a talk with you. And for the Emperor… Let us not be too late.’

The fleet sailed without a sound through the emptiness of space.

***

The time was running short.

The bulkhead which he closed tight behind him was already dripping with the hiss of molten metal with a quiet buzz of unnatural, hastened oxydation, the biochemical acids of the alien horrors eating through the bolts of the entrance.

He knew what he had to do, even if he was not technician.

There was a pipe. It was long and thick and run through the entire length of the gargantuan underground chambers. And beside the horrible heat beating with pulses from the massive plasma generators, the pipe was covered in frost and emanated puffs of steam from the ongoing battle of freezing coolants running inside touching the hot plates of the pipes.

That was exactly what he needed. Quickly he took off the belt of thermal grenades, cursing under the nose as he bound them in a right cluster with the steely rope from his backpack, numb fingers double checking the knots...

The hiss turned into a roar when the bulkhead entrance dropped on the metal floor with sickeningly splashing sound, the molten metal trickling over the edges of the rafter, the plasteel of the contrustion brightening from the heat. A head pushed through, huge and covered in bonelike plates. Grotesquely smallish eyes like black agates scanned the chamber and focused on him, a malignant inteligence twinking inside them. The monster hissed aggressively, lip curved to reveal horribly long fangs...

Lars screamed and then laughted madly. It was an involuntary reaction, but he lost control over himself more and more.

‘I had a dog once. It looked at me the same way when I forgot to put food in its bowl.’ he whispered to himself, and the monster replied by a throaty growl, pushing on the entrance and with the display of impossible strength getting in, simply tearing the entrance apart with its bulk.

‘Oh just fantastic. You know how much work it cost to build that? Oh well.’ he muttered manically with a flash of a grin. He released the safety pins of the grenades and tossed them at the pipe delivering coolant to the whole power plant of the planet. The bundle landed on the freezing surface and got stuck on the spot, caught by the forming ice.

- Przyprowadziłeś kumpli? Szkoda by było, gdyby nie wpadli, jak już tu są…

‘You brought friends?’ he mused with the deadly rictus of a smile, gazing at the incoming monster and the flood of lesser abominations coming inside ‘Good, good, it would be a shame for them not to visit since they are already here, right?’

The grenades flashed like miniature stars. The air thickened, the waves of blistering heat clashed with pure freeze which blasted freely from the hole in the pipe. Red flashes of alarm blared wildly in the vast chamber. ‘Seems we have a minute or so…’ Lars smirked at the towering monster over him with a crazed grin.

And then he died when the monster sheared him in two halves with a lazy swing of its massive bone scythe.

***

‘For the Throne… What was that?’

The surprise in the sargeant voice was as evident as the bright eruption of light in the darkness of space, clear and sharp, with the orange flare crowned by the violet flashes. Captain Follex brow furrowed. The dreaded vermin of Tyranid race did not operate in such a manner.

‘Master warpsighter? What can you tell me about this? Quick and short, if you please. The robustness of speech irritates me.’

Astropath just nodded like if he was in some sort of half-sleep, even when his widely opened, milky eyes trembled in their sockets, like if he was gazing into something horrible and astonishing at once. After a prolonged moment of uncomfortable and tense silence he just sighed and turn the foggy gaze towards the towering figure of the captain.

‘The mission. Not actual Reltoza no longer exist.’ he murmured.

The bridge of the ship went silent and brimming with lack of understanding.

‘What do you mean by ‘no longer exist’, astropath?’ the sargeant Scypion asked after a while in a hollow, dry voice. ‘My experience provide that planets do not cease to exist just like that. Speak up!’

‘We have a visual!’ some young officer of communication yelled out, breaching the usual code of conduit.

‘So what are you waiting for. On the hololit, right now!’

The three dimensional projection flickered above the desk, showing quite a blurry picture of a rather curious scene unfolding. It surely wasn’t a planet. There was a sphere there… Roughly, that is. Cracked horribly, utterly destroyed and pounded, still moving in its dying throes as the tectonical activity surely turn the surface into a hellish scape of utter destruction. The remnants of the planet was surrounded by a dust storms and bigger debris trying to lift of the gravitational pull of it’s sphere…

‘Reltoza, my lord, died with its defenders. And swallowed the xenos invaders with it…’ the astropath added after a brief moment in the same monotonous drone of a whisper.

The captain gaze lingered on the picture of the raging cosmic storm surrounding the ruined globe. The chance that anyone… anything could’ve survive such a cataclysm was pretty much impossible. His sullen silence was broken by the same young officer.

‘We have a communication packet. Recorded on the comm satelites of the planet. All of them are ruined, but the message survived in a scattered maner. Reconstructing it now…’ he said with tense tune in his voice and without asking for permission, he played the recording. The bridge fell into silence once more.

‘Lars Frans. One hundreth sixty regiment of Reltozian prime infantry, code 114-122-564. I am alone. Everyone is dead. I have no time. I am near the plasma cores. I will end this. For the Emperor.’

And the buzzing record fell silent.

Captain Argo Follex of the first company of the Sons of Medusa chapter of mighty astartes smiled grimly to himself and made a little nod.

“For the Emperor.’

Hey thanks :D Glad that you like it and even more so that anyone is reading it ;)