Rapid Fire Challenge #3: April 2018

[Dosjetka]

Prompt: Genesis

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 30th April 2018

Where to post submissions: in this thread

Note - please make sure all submissions adhere to the forum rules. Any entry that breaks one or more rules shall be removed without notice.

[Dosjetka]

Theme tweaked slightly to broaden the possibilities for story-telling.

[Soldier of Dorn]

Not quite to the quality I wanted, and slightly over the wordcount limit, but my submission for the month.
 
Lights flicked in the genetorium.  The fleshweaver toiled endlessly among his children, their twisted and hulking forms floating in the viscous orange of their containment tanks. Many years’ work had led to this point, this pinnacle of genetic perfection, and in sight of his goal he would not falter, regardless of the cost.

 

He toiled for ages – perhaps days, perhaps months – never stopping, never ceasing. Deep in the concentration of his work, time had little meaning.

 

But something broke that concentration.

 

A sound. Just a tap. But something out of place from the heavy thrum of the genetorium’s power sources.

 

He turned towards the edges of the room, towards the areas not illuminated by the cognis-torches ensconced in the walls.

 

“I wondered if it might be you.”

 

The fleshweaver spoke in the machine-tainted tones of Mars, a world he had left behind many years prior, tossing it and its doctrines aside like so much refuse.

 

A figure emerged from the shadows – a knight, clad in sea-green, a heavy mask of ceramite hiding his features behind an impassive visage, colors well known to the fleshweaver over many years of work together.

 

“Why do you come, Longinius? Why do you disturb me, when my work is so very nearly complete?”

 

“I come to thank you, Maestro,” the knight spoke gently, tenderly, almost in a whisper.

 

A crimson lance appeared in the knight’s hand, twin-tipped and glowing with power. It struck like a snake’s tongue and plunged through the fleshweaver’s back, emerging through his back. Were he still fully human, it would have killed him with the shock. Were he an Astartes, the blades would have penetrated both of his hearts and consigned him to death in that way. As it was, the spear simply tore through ironforged machinery and withered flesh, igniting power cables and severing osmotic tubes, catching the teeth of gears and rending metal. Death, to be sure. But not so quickly as that had he still been mortal.

 

As the augment-reddened vision of the fleshweaver faded into darkness, the sea-blue knight removed his helm, revealing an oddly beautiful face that framed a pair of golden eyes, lidded and with slit-like pupils.

 

The eyes of a serpent, the fleshmaker realized.

 

“Birth requires sacrifice, Maestro,” said the knight in a different voice now, every syllable of his words laden with the rich accent of the Terran-born nobility. “For every life created, there must be something taken, no matter how small, and great is what you have created indeed. For this gift, we thank you.”

 

The fleshweaver would have smiled then, if he had still been able. But he could not, and so as shadow claimed him, his last sight was the image of the knight turning and releasing the seals of the containment tanks, orange light spilling forth and tall figures rising to their feet to stand above the knight.

 

For this gift, we thank you.

 

No, though the Magos. Mine is the honor. It always has.

 

For this privilege of serving the Legion, I thank you.

[Marshal Rohr]

The Battle of Gyros-Thravian

Ghar’kul the Blackfang, Terrorkin Clan

Sixteen Years Before the Istvaan Atrocity 

 

++++

                The Siege of Gyros-Thravian was the turning point of the Ullanor Crusade. Under the direct command of the Emperor, the full might of the Imperium was turned upon the fortress world Terrorkin Klan, called Nahazdhur. This steel clad world, Nahazdhur, was the central nexus for the ork military manufacturing in the Ullanor Sectior and garrisoned by armies of billions of ork warriors and subspecies soldiers, in addition to the lesser greenskin caste helots and human slave forces that would no doubt be pressed into service during the invasion. Horus desired a quick end to the war, to tear the throat from Ghar’kul and scatter his forces leaderless. Rogal Dorn and Mortarian, respectfully disagreed with the XVIth Primarch, warning that so many billions of warriors suddenly leaderless would cause a diaspora the likes of which had never been seen before. Horus, acknowledging his brother’s correct assertion agreed that a land war would be the only possibility, and his brother’s – wary of Horus’ reluctance to use his troops in methodical siege combat – volunteered to work together to carry the weight of the war of attrition. The XVIth Legion would form the vanguard in the final assault on the Blackfang’s inner sanctum, and personal combat would fall to Horus. Agreeing to these terms, the three legions set to work with the tacit approval of the Emeperor. Three months into the siege, which had proven costly in lives for the VIIth and XIVth Legions, the Emperor -in his infinite wisdom- recognized a weakness in the Orks defenses. Calling his sons to him, he handed down orders they were to follow exactly and with little explanation the entire battlegroup redeployed along the master of mankinds visions. At the height of the battle, the Blackfang arrogantly took to the field himself deploying for the first time his Imperator titan sized gargantuan command walker. The titan equivalent devastated the auxilia and legions below, while the Primarch Horus led a wing of assault Rams carrying Justaerin elite to assault the monstrosity. Using the XVI Legion teleportation transponders, the Emperor and a host of a thousand Guardians teleported directly into combat with the Life Guard battalion of the Ork Noble class guarding the Blackfang. Though three of the golden warriors fell in combat, the Emperor slew Ghar’kul in single combat – casting his remains from the command deck of his gargantuan and causing the calamitous retreat of his army. The Expeditionary Fleet was able to intercept and destroy over ninety-seven percent of the orks fleeing Nahazdhur’s surface.

++++

[Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch]

Genesis/Second Birth. Slid right under the word limit with this one.

 

Kalas stepped back from the data terminal, nodding at Polonius as he did so. “Fire it up, brother.”

 

Polonius nodded back, and flipped two switches; the first to activate the nutrient flow, the second to inject neurostimms into the sarcophagus. Lights began to flicker and grow steady, and two in particular became very bright.

 

“Who...were...what has happened?” Rumbled the dreadnought’s bass speakers. “I...I recall nothing.”

 

“Honored Brother Julonius. You have been interred into a dreadnought. Regrettably, much of your brain was damaged in your death, and the Sus-An membrane can only do so much, so much of your memory was lost. What can you recall?”

 

“I...I am a Space Marine. I am loyal to the Emperor, and I recall...green. Green everywhere.” The voice filled the room, powerful but unsure.

 

“You are—were, Julionus. A reliable member of the 8th company. It is regrettable your body died that day, and you are lucky to have your mind. We have interred what we can into a dreadnought sarcophagus.” Kalas spoke with the cold clinical air of the Apothecarion, sure in the idea that even with the damage Julionis‘ brain had sustained he would remember.

 

“Dreadnought?” The machine boomed. “I do not know of what you speak. What is a dreadnought?”

 

Kalas sighed internally. This was...unexpected, and frustrating. They knew they would have to re-educate Julionis to an extent, but he and Polonius has thought the hypnoconditioning and knowledge implantation would have stayed.

 

Polonius spoke. “A new body, brother. That is all. You have been revived and given new life. Thank the Solis-Imperator for that. You may shed blood once more in his name and humanity’s.”

 

“I...I can kill for him once more?” Hope resounded inside that metal bass, twisted but present.

 

Polonius smiled. “You may.”

 

“You call me brother. Is this so?”

 

“Yes, Julionis. We are brothers in blood,” Kalas said. “We have fought together, killed together, bled together.”

 

“This is good. I remember brotherhood.” He paused, and his words hung heavy in the air. “You say this body is new?”

 

“Yes, brother. You have been born again in that body.”

 

“Reborn. Tell me, brother...”

 

“Polonius.”

 

“Brother Polonius. What is the Ocrod word for second birth?”

 

”It is Saikaigan, brother. Why?”

 

“I shall take it as a name to honor the second life the emperor has given me. Thank you, brothers. Now, how shall I proceed to continue his great work?”

 

“Take a step forward,” Kalas commanded. The dreadnought complied. “Do you see that light? That is the exit. Walk towards it, and we shall guide you to the drop pod bays. From there we can prosecute the Solis-Imperator’s work.”

 

“Onwards, then, brothers! To victory!” With that, the Redemptor chassis that was Saikaigan Julionis loped out the door, ambling to the launch bay.

 

“What did we create?” Muttered Polonius as they ran after him.

 

“We have given a second birth to a loyal servant of the Solis-Imperator, Polonius. Be glad.”

[Race Bannon]

“What do you mean he hasn’t left the cockpit?!”  Fabricator Captain Volas stared down the servant  with incredulity.

 

Fidgeting, the Acolyte’s hands ringed each other within grungy robs, and he looked to the deck plates between them.  “Sire, I humbly submit the truth as we have learned it.  Baron Wolcir seems to have not left the pod.”  An arm appeared and timidly pointed to the giant machine standing amidst a web of gantries inside the hangar.

 

Volas followed the pointing arm to look at the Armiger.  Several banners showing ancient heraldry and history suspended above and within the bay.  Armored plates were being cleansed with purifying unguents while servitors crawled along scaffolding to repair recent battle damage.

 

“It’s been six days since his return.  How was this not known previously?”

 

The Acolyte wondered if Volas was talking to him as Fabricator General looked at the Armiger while speaking.  He took a chance anyway.  “Sire?”

 

Volas waved a hand to impatiently declare the conversation was over.  The Acolytle bowed while stepping away without turning his back.

 

Walking toward the Warglaive, Volas looked up to the banner hanging just above the top torso.  Reading “Saevas”, Volas scoffed at the idea the Baron was still within the control cokpit.  It was not unheard off for pilots to lose themselves within the god-machines, but such cases were rare across the Imperium.  For the Legio Vindictus of Kiavhar, such a thing had not happened in almost six millennia.

 

Volas used a mobile elevator to lift him to the cockpit behind the “head”.   The Warglaive moved as if to prevent Volas from stepping onto the armored plate.  The Fabricator Captain’s recoiled from the surprise.  The servitors also stopped their actions while loose tools fell to clang about the floor. 

 

Cautiously, Volas considered the machine for a few seconds.  Summoning conviction, he lowered the lift to its head and peered into the main ocular scope.  His reflection from the lens shifted as the iris shuttered into focus.

 

Grinning, Volas expected to coax the Baron to join him with some verbal tribute.  “Baron Wolcir.  Your valor in the recent campaign has brought great honor to your venerable House.  I am sure there is enough praise to elevate your status, maybe to even a pilot a Paladin?  Come, let us talk in more relaxed surroundings.”

 

After a few seconds, the Warglaive lowered itself a few meters and the cockpit door unlocked.  Servos lifted the panel, releasing gases that forced the Fabicator Captain to pinch his nose with dread.  Inside, rested Baron Wolcir, his face a rictus of death with blanched skin pulled tight.  Neural tubes connected along his body pulsed with a beat.

 

Volas realized what he was witness to and knelt in reverence, spreading his arms in supplication.

 

The cockpit door hissed as it closed, locking automatically.  Saevas stood to its standard height.  After a few minutes of prayer, Volas started yelling at Servitors to finish their work.