I came across this on the 40k list and received permission from Krieger to
forward it to the epic list. Thought you guys might enjoy. Any comments pls
direct it to Krieger
Regards
Oki
Date: Sun, 12 Oct 1997 00:27:18 -0500
From: Krieger <krieger_at_...>
To: 40k-list_at_...
Subject: The Children of the Light.
Message-ID: <34405FB6.773_at_...>
Here's a Short Story I wrote regarding a Chapter of Marines I created
named the Children of the Light. Feel free to criticize. Thanks!
The Blood of Martyrs
The black depths of space, pierced only by the light of the far-off
stars, were bitterly silent. The delicate fabric of Space and Time, in
its place, undisturbed since the Creation, rippled suddenly,
motionlessly announcing the arrival of a vessel from the depths of Warp
Space. Dark and cold, the massive wreck of the once-majestic
Battlecruiser, once ominously named 'The Star of the Emperor', could
hardly be recognized for the full glory and imagery of its original
construction. After its destruction and desertion in the Wars of the
Apostasy, the shattered wreck of the once glorious ship, left to drift
in the lonesome stretches of space, slowly made its way to the edges of
the known Universe. In the centuries of drifting, the ship slowly
gathered other to itself, broken hulls of hundreds of other, smaller
ships, of constructions that have been forgotten, even by the
civilizations that made them. The Graven statues of The Emperor, side by
side with ruined cannon turrets, barren and disfigured from the horrors
of the Warp, echoed the death that the ancient vessel had witnessed, and
in the horrors that dwelt deep in its bowels.
Imperial Personnel File #: 078 75 29367
Name: Christinius, Michael Paul Age: 41
Birth: 14.7.40900
Classification: Imperial Space Marine 3rd class
Chapter: Children of the Light
Rank: Captain Company: VII
Psychological Profile: Stable. Battle Record: Exemplary.
Notable Achievements: Crux Terminus - Exemplary Duty in Armageddon
Campaign.
Brother Captain of the Children of the Light, Chapter of Imperial Space
Marines, Michael Christinius, woke, sweat-drenched, from his troubled
sleep to the cold darkness of his Librarius. From his Spartan cot in the
corner, he could hear only the hum of his Com-screen, and feel the
rumble of the generators from deep in the ship. The Librarius was the
chamber set aside for any commanding officer, on this, the Chapter's
newest Cruiser, the 'Sword of Heaven'. Construction being completed only
months before, the 'Sword' was on her maiden voyage, carrying the strike
force sent by the Children to the planets of the Ferdihn system. There,
in the past space of some weeks, a Hulk had sighted in the out-system,
and, as was suitable, Imperial Guard forces had annihilated it with
little trouble. The Lord Captain Commander had sent Brother Michael and
his 7th company to the fifth planet of the system, on the suspicion that
perhaps the invasion force had not been as random as was once believed.
The Children had informants on the planet below, and each had pleaded
for the Lord Captain Commander to come in all haste to purge the
revolution that had followed on the heels of the Hulk. With the Lord
Captain Commander's Blessings, he came to crush this new threat to the
loyal citizens of the Empire.
Michael blinked, his nigh-inhuman eyes adjusting to the darkness. The
Com-screen gave the room an eerie blue-green tint. The room glowed as if
painted in the light of a Phosphorous shell. In the far corner, a huge
shadow loomed, foreboding, glaring across the empty space at the Marine.
Reflexively, Michael reached to the floor next to his cot, and his hand
met the familiar grip of his bolt pistol. Breath quickening, he trained
the sidearm directly on the beast's heart, and, in that terrible
instant, remembered where, and who, he was. He was an Imperial Space
Marine, genetically and physiologically altered to be stronger, faster,
smarter, and tougher than any man alive. He had witnessed horrors that
would drive a lesser man out of his mind and lived to tell about them.
He was the Emperor's chosen, not a child to be scared at shadows.
Michael moved his hand to the touch-plate, and moved the lights to �
brightness. A warm glow sprang from the fixtures on the walls, showing
Michael the 'horror' that had lurked in the corner.
Only his armour lurked there in the shadows, on a stand he had crafted
himself from scented timber. Suddenly conscious of his own frailty,
Michael slowly drifted his fingers over the electronic uplink that was
centered in his back. The tiny port of electronics and steel made that
suit part of his own body. Constructed of the purest white ceramite,
that armored carapace would withstand any blows that would possibly hit
him and it would allow him to survive in the harshest of environs. With
it, his already impressive strength was magnified to phenomenal
proportions. He had, and would, trust it with his life. It was a part of
him. Michael ran his hand over the golden eagle on the breastplate. The
symbol of the Emperor, a symbol which he was sworn to defend. He would
gladly and silently give his life for that Eagle, for that was the
reason of his existence, and solely for the reason. He reached down and
picked up his power sword, from where it hung, sheathed, on a peg. A
single smooth motion brought the sword out, a shining form of steel in
front of him, and a slight flick of the thumb activated the energy
reserve. Currents of blue electricity ran up and down its blade, curling
forms of death. Michael felt the rage rising in him. Mechanically, his
hand reached for the View-window's controls. With the hiss of a
stabilizing vacuum, the solid sheet of ceramite slid upward in to the
ceiling, revealing a panoramic view of the planet below. A wave of
adrenaline hit him like a blow from a Sky Wyrm. He loved the view from
orbit. So peaceful, so soothing, the blue and greens of the seas, and
lush emerald of the expansive forests called to him. Only a field of
energy prevented the rush of the vacuum of space in to his chambers, and
him from being sucked into the endless depths of the Darkness. But the
view� So beautiful. It reminded him of the planet of his birth, so very
far away now. Perhaps he would linger here, to visit the seas and
forests, after the battle was done. But battle came soon, and quickly.
The drop-ships fell at 0400 hours, and he must be prepared. He stepped
back, ripping his gaze from the calm, crystalline oceans. He began to
strap on his armour, checking the readouts and oiling the joints.
Michael's grim, scarred visage masked the pain in his soul as he slapped
a clip of shells into his bolter. There was to be no mercy for the
Chaos-spawn this time. Not after escaping the Golden Throne's fury for
so many millennia. No more. He must be prepared. Everyone must be
prepared.
The shuddering of the drop-ship's engines halted suddenly as the tiny
transport was propelled out of the gravity field generated by the 'Sword
of Heaven'. Michael turned his gaze back out the porthole to gaze at the
retreating battleship, the actual magnitude of the titanic vessel coming
into perspective as the drop-ship drew away. Michael's gaze found the
open view-window of his quarters and locked itself there, until it was
swallowed by the shadows. A light touch on his arm broke his reverie.
"Brother Michael, How fare you," queried a quiet voice. As Michael did
not respond, it spoke again. "Is there something wrong, Captain?"
Michael turned to face the speaker, his dearest friend and
second-in-command, Lieutenant Janus Almieades. Seated on the bench next
to Michael, Janus was an imposing figure, to say the least. Taller and
bulkier than the average Marine, Janus was perhaps the strongest man in
Michael's Company, and a clear, calculating mind. Gentle as a soft
breeze in most times, when the big man entered battle, he was a font of
ferocity, nigh unstoppable. Michael remembered the many battles through
which the two of them had fought, side-by-side.
Michael smiled sadly at his friend. "No, my friend, no." He sighed, a
slow tremble coursing through his frame. "Nothing." Briefly, he lowered
his head. Raising it again, His deep blue eyes shone like fire
reflecting the drop-ship's dim interior lighting. His face was carved in
stone as he barked out an order to his gathered warriors. "Squad
Seraphus! Prepare for drop!" As the Marines leaped to carry out his
orders, their Captain surveyed his warriors. The best of his Company,
they were the Elite, ready to fight, and to die, in an instant. Earic,
the squad support man, slapped an ammo clip in his heavy bolter, as all
around him, the remaining 9 checked and rechecked their weapons and
armour. Slowly, Michael donned his helm, feeling the pressure locks seal
tightly. For a moment, he sat in the heavy silence, his heart pounding.
Heaving a heavy sigh, he switched to Com-net and began his orders.
"Touchdown in T minus 5 minutes at 0800 hours. The drop-ships should
fall with the limits of the city." A three-dimensional image of the city
was projected onto the view screen. "We're positioned on the northern
edge, closest the Port. Here." A blue arrow appeared on the limits of
the city, rolling slowly south, deeper into the Downtown. "Squads
Dominicus and Bellus are coming down in the West quarter, for rendezvous
with us at 0930." A twin blue arrow came into being and moved to join
the first. "Lieutenant Helion is advancing from the southern plains with
the second force, consisting of Squads Varius and Proterian, as well as
the 5th Armoured Battalion. There." A third blue arrow appeared south of
the first two, moving north. "Resistance is expected to be heavy, but
mainly lightly armed infantry with little to no support." A single,
disappointed grunt came over the Com-net. They had expected abit of
sport. "We expect to have the city in well in-hand by 2100 hours.
Understood? May the Emperor be with you, my Brothers."
A cool breeze swept inland from the sea, stirring the banner that flew
above the hulking remains of the ruined Port. The Golden Sunburst had
flown above countless battlefields on countless worlds, and now it stood
witness to the peace of the dying light. From the far southern edge of
the city, a charred wind brought the faint rumble of tank engines, and
below in the streets, a Marine patrol strode confidently past bodies of
slain rebels. On the Pad, a landing craft from the 'Sword' had docked to
vacate the remaining Loyalist population. On the left side of the Pad,
huge steel crates once used for the transport of civilian vehicles,
rested, now the only windbreak on the barren concrete. Michael stood,
the lone witness to the ragged group that now rested, exhausted, in
their makeshift camp constructed in the shadow of the cargo vessel.
These people had endured the past chaotic months of death by fleeing
their homes and jobs to hide in the stark hills above the city. They had
sacrificed the quiet, prosperous lives they had known in the desperate
battle for their own survival. Now, though, there was peace in their
lives. Soldiers of the Empire had freed the city from the rebels' grip,
and they could return to what was left of the only world they knew. They
would rebuild now, in an attempt to start their short lives anew. In his
soul, Michael felt a sense of duty to these people, and in those many
years now gone, he had kept his oaths to them. To these innocents,
Freedom's armoured fist was as destructive and sorrowful as that of the
revolutionaries, and they cowered in fear of their liberators. A hundred
myths, bathed in blood, had been told over the centuries, too many
worlds had been witness to the Marine's armoured might. A Mother
clutched her infant child to her breast, attempting to shield it with
her own body from the iron gaze of the solemn warrior. Even for all the
lives lost in their defense, the people felt only fear for the Captain
and his men. He was doomed to continue his battle, despite the hatred
and trepidation of his charges. Michael's heart was pierced, and a drop
of sorrow fell from his eye to trickle down the stone of his cheek.
A steady, measured tread from the other end of the Landing Pad drew his
attention. Snapping his head around, Michael's gaze found the imposing
figure of a Marine hastening toward him across the pad. As the distance
between them lessened, Michael could identify him as Janus's subordinate
a gruff, grizzled Marine Sergeant by the name of Andric.
"Brother Captain, I have been sent to request your presence in the city,
Sir. The Rebels have launched a counter-attack. Lieutenant Almieades is
currently holding position, but we estimate upwards of 2500 rebels, and
we are losing ground steadily, Sir. In addition, contact has been lost
with the Fifth Armoured. We fear the worst." Andric threw a sharp
salute, fist to chest, and stood, awaiting orders.
Michael frowned in silent contemplation. This was not unexpected, but
the numbers astounded him. Upwards of 2500 rebels? That effectively
doubled the estimated number of opposition. Today's combat in the
streets had been savage and swift, the resistance too light to provide a
lingering battle, thus Michael had expected this resurgence. But
sometime before dawn, but he had not imagined it would come so early.
"Sergeant Andric, What is the status of the Company?"
The scarred Veteran thought deeply for a moment, then responded. "4
killed, Sir. The wounded have been tended by the Apothecaries, and are
in fighting condition."
Michael nodded. "Understood." Approximately 75 Marines versus 2500
lightly armed rebels. Even in the best of conditions, those were not
favorable odds. As they reached the edges of the city, He could hear the
sounds of battle on the evening wind. Michael sighed. He knew his duty.
"Sergeant, Pull the squads back to this point. We'll hold our position
here, to give the landing craft time to prepare for evacuation."
Andric gave a hasty salute and made his way up the street to the battle
front. Michael stood, silent, as the roar of the conflict drew nearer.
The smell of death hung heavy in the air and the wisps of smoke obscured
his line of sight. His breath quickened at the thought of battle. Soon
now, very soon.
A smooth motion and he was prepared. The power sword in his left hand
hummed with a hunger for blood. He whipped around to bark short, curt
orders to the fearful mob gathered in the shadow of the vessel.
Scurrying to gather their meager possessions, the crowd shuffled their
feet anxiously, as the ship's crew prepped the cargo hold to carry
passengers. Michael nodded. Perhaps the ship would be away before the
rebels arrived.
But in that instant, the thunder of the battle erupted from the edge of
the city. By now the Marine forces were at a near full retreat, the
ravenous horde at their heels. Lazfire and bolter shells ricocheted from
the concrete walls, whizzing above the stolid captain's head, as screams
of rage and pain reached his ears. Rebels fell, shorn in two by the
swords of Marines, or torn to pieces by a hail of fire from the
soldier's bolters. But now and again an armoured figure would stumble
and be engulfed by the horde, never to rise again. And in every loss,
the thin line of warriors holding back the mob wavered, as a thin wire
is tightened before it snapped. Then, as the remaining Marines reached
the edge of the landing pad, the sudden silence gripped the scene.
The rebels drew back to the buildings, perhaps wary of the new
surroundings, perhaps
disheartened from their losses. From the edge of the city, the roar of
the looming mass was now muted to a faint buzz. Dead littered the plain
between the dark city's shadows and the fading light of the landing pad.
Above, darkening the light of the setting sun, ominous thunderclouds
gathered, a foreboding prophecy of the slaughter to come. As the
battered remnants of his command staggered to the shelter of the steel
crates, a lithe figure loped across the barren concrete.
The thin, lanky figure of the crewman threw Michael a lazy salute. "The
Captain sends his regrets, Sir. The civvies, well, they're packed nice
and tight, sir, but He don't reckon there be enough room in the hold for
all o' them and your men together. Shall we begin unpacking them, Sir?
We can have 'em out in a couple ten minutes, and you can just pop over
and in, iffen you want, Captain."
Michael surveyed his gathered troops. Once spotless armour now covered
in blood and grime, each had turned to stare with a predatory gaze at
the scrawny figure. In that moment, Michael wanted to say, 'Yes. Get
them out of there, we'll be over in a minute.' His heart wanted to give
the order to sacrifice these innocents' lives for his own. He too had
fought today, felt the warm blood of his foes on his face. His soldiers
deserved to board that vessel and to leave these people to their own
quarrels and short-lived destinies. But then, a memory surfaced. A
ragged, fearful woman shielding her child from the gaze of a
battle-hardened Marine. The look of despair and hopelessness on her face
echoed the state of her soul. Her home had been ripped away from her,
burned and pillaged in the throes of debauchery. Her child was all she
had, now. And in each person's eyes, the same story. Destruction,
pillaging, looting, mindless hatred. And as he met each Marine's eyes,
he was assured his answer. He shook his head. "No, Brother, You will
give this Message to the captain of the ship. Tell him to execute his
launch sequence immediately. Under no circumstances is he to return for
us. My Lieutenant shall accompany you and make sure these commands are
followed to the letter." A startled cry of 'No!' was tore the silence
from Janus. Michael inwardly smiled sadly and moved to his friend's
side, his hushed voice meant for the huge man's ears alone. "Go in
Peace, My Friend."
Janus again burst out in anger. "No! I will not abandon my post, nor
you, Captain!"
Suddenly, Michael was solid stone. "You WILL, do so, Lieutenant! That is
an Order! The Company will have need of strong leadership after this
day. I know you will not fail me." As though his heart pained him to do
so, Janus, his eyes straining to say what his mouth could not, snapped a
final salute, and moved at a quick trot across the Pad to the landing
craft.
After watching him go, Michael turned to address his waiting soldiers.
So very few were left now. Out of the 80-some troops he had brought to
the surface, only 35 remained. Bloodied and grim, they had once appeared
as Angels, glorious to behold and bright as the sun, but now the only
haloes they wore were ones of Death. In the distance, he could hear the
rumble of the approaching rebel horde. Thirty-five tired faces gazed
back solemnly into his own.
"My Brothers, we have fought side by side for many years now, you and I.
Blood we have shed together, Horrors we have witnessed, and for no
purpose other than the Honorable defense of the Empire. But now the
chance has come to make each drop of blood, each lost life, worth the
trial. This is the time to question what we truly fight for�This is our
Duty. Up, Brothers, To Battle! For the Emperor, Justice, and Glory!"
Lifting the banner of the Children from where it lay propped against a
crate, he mounted his makeshift mountain. With one voice, the Marines
around him took up the battle cry, and turned their faces to the dying
light. 'For the Emperor, Justice, and Glory!' Michael roared his
defiance to the onrushing horde and raised His armoured fist to the
setting sun. His last conscious thought was of that view that eternity
ago. Perhaps when this last battle was over, he would go to visit those
forests and those seas. Perhaps�
It was a good day to die.
Had someone chanced to have been witness this final battle, they would
have seen the small complement of noble warriors, halloed in the light
of the dying sun and in the glory of their own spirit, assaulted by
thousands upon thousands of rebels. One by one, they fell, till at the
last only one was standing. Tall and proud he stood, his burnished
armour gleaming as a star in the Night, and bearing on high a banner
emblazoned with a Golden Sunburst on a field of snow. Powerful in his
desperation, He stood. And no man could touch him. 5 score were slain by
his hand in that hour, before he too was overthrown, and the Golden
Sunburst ran red with the blood of martyrs.
As you can see, Its not exactly true to GW's exact idea of the Universe.
Thanks for the comments: krieger_at_...
Krieger
--
'Let Him who Desires Peace, Prepare for War.' - Vegetius
A Warrior's Sanctuary on the Internet
http://vin.wvc.net/~krieger/index.html
Received on Tue Oct 14 1997 - 23:28:33 UTC