Dreams of Falling (A Drop Pod Story)

[Lathe Biosas]

The Drop Pod was falling.

 

It was, in the strictest technical sense, doing exactly what it had been designed to do.

 

It was also the greatest thing in the universe.

 

The machine-spirit sang.

 

Atmospheric friction hammered against its ceramite shell. Warning runes flashed across its internal displays. The pod's retro-thrusters remained dormant, waiting for the correct moment.

 

ALTITUDE: 8,000 METRES.

 

Within its armoured compartment, the Deathwing waited.

 

The Drop Pod knew them.

 

It knew the weight of each warrior strapped into his restraint harness. It knew the power consumption of their armour, the temperature of their weapons, the tiny vibrations caused by their breathing.

 

They were its passengers.

 

Its purpose.

 

Its reason.

 

One of them placed a hand against the interior bulkhead.

 

The Drop Pod registered the contact.

It liked that.

 

ALTITUDE: 5,000 METRES.

 

The machine-spirit felt something approaching excitement.

 

It had been waiting in the launch bay aboard the strike cruiser for seventeen hours.

 

Seventeen hours of darkness.

 

Seventeen hours of being surrounded by Thunderhawks, ammunition servitors and the distant, comforting rumble of the ship's engines.

 

But now...

 

Now it was falling.

 

IMPACT IN 43 SECONDS.

 

The Drop Pod's machine-spirit considered this.

 

It approved.

 

IMPACT IN 31 SECONDS.

 

The warriors were ready.

 

The Drop Pod was ready.

 

The world below was about to become the problem of the Dark Angels.

 

IMPACT IN 12 SECONDS.

 

The machine-spirit sang louder.

Then everything became fire.

 

The Drop Pod struck the earth with enough force to bury itself several metres into the soil.

 

For a moment, everything was still.

Then its restraints released.

 

Its doors exploded outward.

The Deathwing emerged.

 

The Drop Pod watched them go.

 

The Sergeant was first.

 

Then the others.

 

Storm bolters.

 

Power fists.

 

Lightning claws.

 

Ancient armour and ancient wrath.

 

They disappeared into the smoke and the screaming.

 

The Drop Pod's internal systems hummed contentedly.

 

MISSION STATUS: SUCCESSFUL.

 

It had delivered the Deathwing.

 

It had done its duty.

 

It waited.

 

Perhaps they would return.

 

They did not return.

 

At first, the Drop Pod was not concerned.

 

The battle continued around it.

 

It could hear the distant thunder of weapons and the harsh chatter of Imperial vox traffic.

 

Sometimes there were explosions.

 

Sometimes there were screams.

 

Once, something very large struck the ground nearby and shook several tonnes of dirt from its hull.

 

The Drop Pod considered this perfectly acceptable.

 

It was a battlefield machine.

 

It was where it belonged.

 

Eventually, another Drop Pod landed nearby.

 

Its impact was less graceful.

 

The two machines remained silent for several minutes.

 

Then the newcomer transmitted a burst of machine-code.

 

ARE YOU FUNCTIONAL?

 

The first Drop Pod replied.

 

AFFIRMATIVE.

 

A pause.

 

WHERE ARE YOUR WARRIORS?

 

The first Drop Pod considered this.

 

THEY HAVE DEPARTED.

 

Another pause.

 

AH.

 

That was all.

 

It was sufficient.

 

Days passed.

 

The Drop Pods remained.

 

The fighting had moved farther away now.

There was less artillery.

 

Less screaming.

 

Less of the wonderful, terrible noise that accompanied the arrival of the Deathwing.

 

The other Drop Pods were still there.

 

They talked sometimes.

 

Mostly about deployment.

 

About impacts.

 

About damage.

 

About their passengers.

 

One of the older pods claimed to have survived twenty-three combat insertions.

 

Another claimed twenty-seven.

 

A third insisted that both were exaggerating.

 

The first Drop Pod listened.

 

It did not boast.

 

It had only carried the Deathwing once.

 

It considered that sufficient.

 

Sometimes, at night, it replayed the recording of its doors opening.

 

It replayed the sound of boots striking the ground.

 

It replayed the Sergeant's voice over the internal vox.

 

"Deathwing. Advance."

 

The Drop Pod liked that recording.

It played it often.

 

One morning, the machine-spirit detected something: engines.

 

The other Drop Pods detected them too.

For several seconds, none of them transmitted.

 

Then:

 

TECHMARINES.

 

The first Drop Pod experienced something difficult to classify.

 

Its reactor output increased by 0.7 percent.

 

Its internal systems warmed.

 

Its targeting sensors swept the horizon.

 

They were coming.

 

The sons of the Lion were returning.

 

The Drop Pod waited.

 

The Thunderhawk landed.

 

Techmarines emerged.

 

Servitors followed.

 

Cables were attached.

 

Systems were checked.

 

Damage was assessed.

 

The first Drop Pod listened eagerly.

 

One of the Techmarines struck its hull with a gauntleted hand, "Still functional," he said.

 

The machine-spirit felt pride.

 

"Good. We'll take this one back."

 

The cables tightened.

 

The Drop Pod's systems began shutting down.

 

Its consciousness dimmed.

 

It had done its duty.

 

It would be returned to the strike cruiser.

 

Perhaps, one day, it would fall again.

 

Perhaps it would carry another squad.

 

Perhaps it would carry the Deathwing.

 

The thought pleased it.

 

Its final active sensor feed showed the battlefield receding beneath it as the Thunderhawk climbed.

 

Far below, the other Drop Pods were being loaded as well.

 

The Drop Pod transmitted one final burst of machine-code to them.

 

UNTIL NEXT DEPLOYMENT.

 

The others replied.

 

Then the world went dark.

 

And in the darkness of the cargo hold, the machine-spirit dreamed of falling.

 

[kabaakaba]

Damn good.

Really, I just love that machine spirit sensation of purpose. 

Also iirc in Dante's novel they said only machine spirit block is evacuated due to hull is cheap and easy to produce. So they leave it on battlefield but evacuate it's brains.

[Lathe Biosas]

8 hours ago, kabaakaba said:

Damn good.

Really, I just love that machine spirit sensation of purpose. 

Also iirc in Dante's novel they said only machine spirit block is evacuated due to hull is cheap and easy to produce. So they leave it on battlefield but evacuate it's brains.

 

Good to know, I'll rewrite that bit.

[Adeptekon]

This was before drop pod facebook.