Rapid Fire Challenge: Stalemate - February 2021

[Race Bannon]

Prompt: Stalemate

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 28 February 2021

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.

[ThePenitentOne]

I played the Space Hulk game today, so now I can write the follow-up story. It will be a companion piece to my January story.

 

As it turns out, Stalemate was pretty appropriate to the battle. The scenario was designed to allow up to 8 Genestealers to escape from the ship. Only four made it out, and only one Terminator fell in the battle. So the Terminators weren't strong enough to prevent the birth of the Genestealer Cult, but nor were the Stealers able to destroy the terminators defending the ship. 

 

I've reread my entry from January, and I found it pretty weak, so I'm redrafting it. Then I'll write up the details of the scenario and a summary of the battle. Finally, I'll write February's Rapid Fire Challenge to close the Space Hulk event. I should have enough time to do a second draft BEFORE I post this time!

[Race Bannon]

I love that kind of serendipity ^_^

[Kierdale]

"They ain't coming through that."

Hidden Content

He almost expected the bulkhead door to buckle, such was the force of the strikes upon it. Several rifles were trained upon it just in case. Trooper el-Amara swallowed, his throat dry more from the stress of hours of fighting than the ship’s recycled air.

The banging ceased.

“They ain’t coming through that.” It sounded as much a prayer as a statement, el-Amara thought, but he didn’t comment.

“They ain’t coming through,” his sergeant repeated to himself once more, turning away to look with hope at the surviving bridge crew of the destroyer.

“Astropath Grzywinski told me she got a signal out, sergeant.” Sergeant Al-Arshad nodded, not looking at the other. All of the guardsmen avoided looking at the navigator – the ranking office of the ship – despite the black silk bandana about her forehead. All knew what lay beneath it. Got a signal out before his choir was overrun by the Greenskins. He’d seen several of them, skin tattooed with crude serpent-like patterns.

El-Amara looked from the sealed bridge door to the gargoyle-mouthed air vents. He hated the recyc air of ships, but at least the barbaric xenos wouldn’t shut down the scrubbers. The bastards needed the air as much as the humans did. With the engines offline, the ship was adrift in the void, the Ork ramship buried in her guts. He took his left hand from the barrel of his lasrifle long enough to wipe his sweating brow on the sleeve of his fatigues.

“Alright, troops,” Al-Arshad called out, “pool rations and ammo. Corporal, set a watch. We wait.”

That eased the tension a fraction. El-Amara was about to stand, his back aching from being crouched so long.

“El-Amara, al-Taha, you two take first watch.”

He cursed and settled back down, rifle trained upon the door.

 

The hours passed, they took what rest they could get though sleep was broken by the thunderous clang of occasional being rounds fired at the other side of the bridge door. Likely bored greenskins rather than any actual attempt at psychological warfare.

El-Amara cycled back onto watch, glad to have something to focus him rather than having to see the faces of the bridge crew – who looked even more stressed and impotent.

He sniffed and looked toward the gargoyle-vent once again. The air was definitely getting rank. He could smell it. Grunting, he looked toward the doorway again. There hadn’t been any shots for a good hour or so now.

A hiss replaced it.

He frowned at the sound and exchanged a look with al-Tara, and mouthed the word “Gas?”

His comrade stood, slinging his rifle and approached the nearest gargoyle, sniffing and peering in.

There came an ear-piercing scream as something scaly darted out of the vent, its large distended jaws fastening about the guardsman’s face. Fangs sank in, pumping venom. That had been the source of the hissing, and following it came a deluge of other snakes from every vent in the room.

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good job, Kierdale. So the Ork ramship

was made with parts from a Tyranid-infested space hulk, and the Tyranids the Orks unknowingly brought with them, are now aboard the destroyer?

Nitpick, with my emphasis:

“They ain’t coming through,” the sergeant repeated to himself once more, turning away to look with hope at the surviving bridge crew of the destroyer destroyer.

There's an extraneous word.

[Kierdale]

Good job, Kierdale. So the Ork ramship

was made with parts from a Tyranid-infested space hulk, and the Tyranids the Orks unknowingly brought with them, are now aboard the destroyer?

Nitpick, with my emphasis:

“They ain’t coming through,” the sergeant repeated to himself once more, turning away to look with hope at the surviving bridge crew of the destroyer destroyer.

There's an extraneous word.

Thanks for spotting the extraneous word. I’ve edited the story to clear up the former point. :)

[his_light]

The blunted broadsword clanged once more against hard cermite pauldron of Neachdainn’s opponent.  Their duel had lasted almost six hours now, raging on to the backdrop of an even more epic orbital battle that, at any moment, could engulf them in an all-devouring ball of flame and fury. Yet they had fought on with an almost heedless disregard for this danger, focused solely on their own, personal, battle.

 

And what a battle it had been. Neachdainn had underestimated his opponent, that much was certain. He had watched him slice through seven men of the Polantine heavy infantry, who had rushed onto the bridge, desperate to claim the prize for themselves. They had been neatly decapitated, disembowelled and disembodied for their troubles, their killer scarcely breaking a sweat. That was not why Neachdainn had underestimated him, however. The smirk, the arrogance, that was etched across the killer’s face, that was why he had underestimated him. He had fought arrogant men before. And he had humbled them all. This time would be no different.  

 

The ringing of metal brought Neachdainn back from his distracting thoughts, as the killer’s blade was once more parried by the Sons’ broadsword. The traitor had style and form, that much could be conceded. He still had that smile etched across his face, as if he was privy to some joke that nobody had saw fit to tell Neachdainn. That did not matter, he told himself. He was Champion of the 5^th Company, runner up in the Game of Fire only to the legendary Arailt MacCrisden, Champion of the 1^st. He was Morgan Neachdainn. He was death incarnate.

 

 

Yet the traitor had defied death, and continued to do so. Neachdainn’s thrust towards his right knee did little more than leave him off balance, and he received a punch to the helm for his troubles. He stumbled back, his vision blurry, as the traitor subjected him to an onslaught of swift, incisive blows that he only parried with great difficulty and no small amount of luck. He countered with a midsection blow that sent the traitor reeling backward, falling to one knee, but before Neachdainn could press the advantage three crewmen appeared, their lasguns blazing. As little threat as they posed, it would be wrong to kill his opponent without proper adherence to the laws of combat. He charged the three men, who scarcely lived long enough to regret their decision.

 

The Champion of the 5^th turned to once more see the traitor rise to face him. He had been wrong about his opponent. He had been worthy after all. That would not save him. For he faced Morgan Neachdainn, Champion of the 5^th and death incarnate. Death is patient. And if it took six more hours, Neachdainn would have his prize.

Edited February 23, 2021 by his_light

[Jings]

I got a Friday deadline, seems like as good a time as ever to write a short story. 

 

 

5…

The guns of the Calladon 57^th Artillery Regiment sang in harmony with the screams of war. Though poor in shells, they were rich in high density targets and rained fury down on where the enemy infantry formations were thickest. Long and bitter had the siege been, and it continued to be so. While all sources of power had been cut from the demi-hive, arcane rituals and blood sacrifices powered a makeshift void shield that prevented the corrupt city from simply being annihilated from orbit. Instead, waves must be launched to push past the long-blasted city gates, only to be pushed back by the enemy as the tides of battle inevitably shifted. But long had the shield held, and every passing day the shield flickered more and more frequently.

4…

On good days, the charred wreckages of Russes or mutilated corpses of guardsmen would be outnumbered by the wreckages and corpses of the enemies. On bad days… They would not. On the frontline, everyone prayed that today would be a good day. As artillerymen, our prayer was instead that we would be successful in ruining the day of our enemies. Shells fired on my command had resulted in the deaths of thousands. As far from the thick of the fighting as we were, our days were often good, and we were spared from witnessing the bad. The ebb and flow of battle rarely reached as far as our guns, and when it did, we would reduce their approach to a field of craters and body parts in Wyvern fire.

3…

We had one weapon in our arsenal that we had yet to unleash, but the preparations were being made. The Ordnance Extremis, an advanced ballistic missile mounted on Deathstrike launchers, were being prepared for launch to shut down the shield for good. A two-mile cordon had been raised around the diameter of the shield to limit friendly casualties, with soldiers of the penal legions placed front and centre, protecting the more valuable shock units and armour. While many soldiers of the Imperium would die today, their sacrifice would be repaid one-hundred-fold with the blood of traitors.

2…

My face remained calm as I gave the order to fire, but the bleeding from my clenched fists would have blown the façade if all attention were not on the missiles as they flew fast and hard towards the city. Earthshaker cannons raised in salute, prepared to unleash a hell paltry in comparison to the devastation about to be brought down. As the missiles were halfway to their destination, they appeared to double. Ten missiles turned to twenty as the void shield momentarily dropped and unleashed missiles of their own. One by one, as ours impacted the shield, theirs obliterated our assault lines. All but one, which continued its journey many miles outside of battle outside the city.

1…

I looked up and stared the nose of the enemy missile and realized yesterday had been my last good day. I wept.

…Fire!