Under the Impermeable Pall

[SlangWhanger]

I have always loved reading the fanfiction here on BnC, and thought it was about time I wrote something of my own! What follows is a short introduction to a short story (common theme here ;) ) following a Sons of Orar Tactical Squad through the eyes of one of the Marines. Science Fiction can often over glamourise (now a word...) war, and here I hope to return it to its roots and show war as it is on the front line, where even Space Marines can forget their wonderful doctrines and act like the petty mortals they must protect...

 

Enjoy!

 

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The dust motes swirled on peaceful eddies in the dank red light as the Rhino bounced its way over the undulating desert floor. The mood was still, fractious, as if it were waiting to be broken by some intolerable bout. Although Space Marines were genetically modified to not feel fear, there was no denying that the mind would flood with different feelings before a battle. Especially a battle like the one they were about to face.

 

Sergeant Saeom stood and made his way forward through the troop compartment, removing his white Mark V helm to the hiss of the decompression locks. Rapping his gauntlet on the reinforced steel, the hatch to the driver’s pit slid open with cool efficiency. The aft was instantly flooded with a conglomerate of noises as various machine peeping and data feeds spilled through the open door.

“Time ‘til E.T.A.?’ asked Saeom to the Rhino’s current driver, trying anything to break the constricting silence that had flooded the vehicle for the past hour.

 

“Twelve to thirteen minutes, by my count. Might start to get hot in about nine though.” ‘Get hot’ was an understatement of what the Astartes faced. Dark Eldar forces, with whom the Sons of Orar had been warring with for the desolate planet of Courn for fourteen months now, had sent splinter forces to take the small nomadic settlements dotted around the vast desert that covered a third of the planet. Settlements that the Lord Commander had sworn would be protected. So now it was up to the Sons of Orar to follow through with his empty promises. The only issue was the fact that no one really knew what strengths the devious Dark Eldar had sent to the different hamlets, from artillery to Archons, as orbital scanning had proved fruitless with the heavy dust cover distorting all signals of any sort. Therefore the threat had been considered minimal, and only Squad Saeom and their Rhino had been sent in.

 

The twelve to thirteen minutes lasted years, plenty enough time for Escius to gauge the mood of his squad mates. Laeneas, the flamer wielding specialist of the squad, was sitting closest to the door on the left benches, slowly loosening and retightening the valve of his beloved weapon. Opposite him and next to Escius was Tarno, whose restless fingers beat out a silent staccato tattoo on the casing of his bolter. Across the bay from Escius sat Oenor, old faithful, dutiful to the end. Body erect and helmeted head resting casually against the hard casing around them, he was the complete opposite of the novice that sat beside him. Fresh from the scouts and keen to prove, Brother Annar sat hunched, gazing excitedly into the lenses of his new set of power armour. The reverie was disturbed as Saeom came to sit back down beside Escius, retrieving his combi-melta, and the line trooper saw the look in his sergeant’s eyes before the white helmet denoting his status slid over his battered features once again. It had been a look of doubt directed at his new burden. Throughout the journey the usually loud Marine Devedios, who Ecsius had never managed to understand, had been emptying all his pre-prepped magazines, only to reload them again moments later. Escius’ staunchest friend and sworn brother-in-arms Crucen sat with his bolter and helmet in his lap, a calm and reserved composure inhabiting his face, his dull blue eyes gazing into a middle distance at some great feat that only he could live. The silence was broken again by the painful, metallic screech of a gun slide as Honoured Primator racked his empty boltgun, opening the mechanisms to examine the masterful piece of technology for defects that may affect its performance. He of course found none. The Sons of Orar did not tolerate any possibilities for failure, whether in planning or equipment. Lastly, furthest from the rear door and provided with plenty of space for his heavy weapon, Brother Konnor sat with his Heavy Bolter perched perilously across his knees, having been stripped, blessed and oiled countless times during the journey.

 

Nine minutes and thirty seven seconds had past when the oppressive red light illuminating the cabin changed to an ominous amber. The mood changed just as quickly. All bolters were loaded and cocked and equipment was given a final quick once-over. Muscle-bundles were primed to spring into action at a thought’s notice and the advanced helmet sensory systems synonymous with his Corvus pattern Power Armour powered up as if from a long hibernation, and started linking to the data feeds from other squad members. Gifted with the finest technology of war and the powerhouses to carry it, the Space Marines were a force that any enemy had learnt to fear, and all expected a bitter struggle on encounter with the finest warriors of the known universe.

 

 

 

 

Edited for formatting

[Carrack]

I liked your intro. Particularly the pre battle rituals that soldiers take, no matter if they are genetically engineered super soldiers. It gives both an element of realism, and enough character development that if they start taking casualties, it's not merely some no named grunt. Plus it gives you hooks to expand on their characters later.