Recruiting Team
So long, so very long.... With a sigh, the bolter was raised. Yet again,
the rachet moved, the action sang, the muzzle barked, the bullets rang.
"Another one bites the dust...." the ancient song, almost pre-Atomic,
hummed tunelessly through lips pursed with concentration.
"Strike Leader Favius, Doggies incoming your position ETA seconds three
five "
"They're already here, Quintus, what's left of them."
"Copy you Strike Leader. Help required?"
<Oh yes, Quintus, I could do with some help. It takes intense
concentration every morning to transmogrify the tentacles on my hands
back into fingers. My dreams are always a trial by Combat, usually with
yet another bat-winged menace from some fiery Perdition. All I want is
some rest, but I have not had that for at least nine millenia. Bullets,
Bolters, Blasters and Bayonets lacerating my changeable mutable almost
uncontrollable Body merely excruciate me for a few centuries before the
wounds heal. The peace of the grave is Not An Option. Help? Yes, I
could use some help.>
"Strike Leader ?"
Dimly, Favius became aware of two facts: That he was laughing insanely,
and that the last of the grey figures had stopped moving. Time to face
the present.
"Negative, Quintus, the Pups have been strangled."
Again, as Favius said it, he realised it was true. A third and fourth
arm had sprouted from his armour, and clawed talons had ripped through
the armour of the Space Wolf Marines, crushing their throats.
<Got to stop DOING that...>
By sheer force of will, Favius first shrank, then re-absorbed the
bone-white pinions that had so suddenly appeared. from the armour that
was now a part of him. Carefully he separated his body from the plasteel
womb/cocoon/carapace/skin surrounding him. Painfully it detached,
becoming inanimate Mark VI armour once more.
<Remain Calm. Remain focussed. The Jewel in the Heart of the Lotus.
Retain your humanity. Restrain the unbridled. Follow the ancient forms.
Remain above the tumult. Integrate with the here and now.>
"Team three reporting, Enemy forces neutralised this sector."
Favius sighed again, another useless battle won for now. Time to behave
like a commander again.
"Very well, execute plan gamma epsilon, variant three"
"Acknowledged, Strike Leader"
<How well we follow the old, old forms, ancient and outmoded when the
Emperor was still Human. How well we have to. They are our touchstone
with what we once were. We are as bound by ritual as the veriest
Imperial Cultist.>
Slowly, Favius looked into the dead eyes of a Space Wolf. The pupils
were dilated, the foam of battle-rage drying on the lifeless lips.
Something of Madness, of the Loup-Garou still lingered in those eyes.
Khorne would surely approve. Tzeench too, as Favius observed the long
index fingers, the hairy palms that bespoke of some wild, lupine
metamorphosis barely held in check.
<And they call US Traitor?>
What about the deeper betrayal whose token lies here before him.
Madness, Chaos and Change. Violence for its own sake, Psychosis made
manifest in flesh and plasteel, all in the service of a Chaos God in all
but name. Just look at the oceans of Blood spilt under the Emperor's
Banner, the double-headed Eagle of the Imperium! The two heads, the
outspread wings! What a thin disguise for the mark of Khaine! As
Slaannesh is fueled by the tortured souls of a million dying Eldar, so
is Our Beloved Emperor sustained by the tortured essence of a million
human Psykers. There he decays on his Golden Throne, naught but Noble
Rot, indistinguishable from one of the less savoury associates of
Nurgle. And this broken reed, this Grey Wolf of the Space Marines, the
pinnacle of the Adeptus Astartes, the ones who were Humanity's finest.
They who once lead the Bright Crusade to recover the lost technologies
and combat superstition, now Werewolves, Vampires, Necrophiliacs and
Masochists scrimshawing their own bones as they mumble liturgies they
don't understand, over machines that were beyond their ken. What a most
complete Transformation! How Tzeench must laugh, at this Betrayal of
betrayals, Treachery of treacheries.
" Sic Transit Gloria Mundis, and Requiescat in Pacem, Frater Lupus."
Meanwhile, there was work to be done. The Black Ship was due, and those
destined to be food for the God on Earth had to be 'rescued' for some
less certain, but no less terrible fate. Recruits for the Lost and the
Damned....
The weakest would be consumed anyway, by creatures less powerful, but no
less terrible. Some would be possessed, their bodies rent asunder by
some Daemon or other. Daemonette or Lord of Change, Bloodthirster or
Fleshhound, the result was the same for the victim. Only the strongest
would be capable of resisting the Predators of the Warp. And those would
eventually lose their humanity, anyway. Two of the latest three recruits
were now puddles of thrashing tentacles, claws and eyestalks, Chaos
Spawn. The ceremonial disposal of these former comrades in arms, and
reshaping and salvage of their irreplaceable equipment would soon take
place. A fate that sooner or later, claimed every Chaos Marine, yea,
even those hardy few who had followed Horus in his ill-starred
rebellion. Only those Psykers powerful enough to become the Predators
they had once fought were spared.. If you could call it that. They who
lost their Humanity to become veritable Daemon Princes, a most dubious
exchange. They survived though , they and perhaps a few others. The
fabled Sensei... but that was Hope, and Hope was dangerous to one whose
every moment of existence depended on constant vigilance.
"Gamme Epsilon Three Completed."
"Acknowledged, Team Seven. Proceed as planned."
Horus was Hope at one time, and look what he became! A tool, a puppet,
dancing to the discordant tunes of four surpassing strange Masters. And,
for a short time, a fifth.
"Twelve repeat One Two Thunderhawks leaving sector five for Orbit."
"Leave them be, they're evacuating the geneseed and wounded."
Khaine was once hope too, giving aid to those who fought against
fearful odds, the downtrodden and victimised. But his berserk bloodlust
just led to indiscriminate carnage. He'd fed well today, no need for
more Blood for the Blood God.
"Team Five reporting, Sector five secure."
"Dig in immediately, plan sigma sigma seven, full defences against
orbital barrages."
"Acknowledged, Strike Leader."
Slaanesh once seemed to be the way out. Glorification of Beauty, Charity
to the poor, education to the ignorant, until this too degenerated into
subjugation, insane selfishness, sadism and narcissism.
"Team Leader Three reporting, Brother Honorius has lost it."
"Damn."
<How very appropriate that remark is. How very, very appropriate.>
Honorius was once of another regiment, one that landed with the
original Thousand Sons on Old Earth. Spared in the dreadful rite that
saved so many brothers from further corruption at the cost of
imprisoning their disembodied spirits in their armour, he had survived
fully ten thousand years of struggle against the mutations that eroded
his humanity. And today, he had finally lost the battle, and was now
some shapeless thing oozing its way tortuously across the landscape.
Tzeench was hope once, hope for a change from an intolerable stasis.
But intolerable stasis mutated to become unbearable change. La Plus la
Change, La plus La meme chose. As Honorius was now experiencing.
"Execute the salvage immediately, and terminate his suffering."
"HAVECO"
"Acknowledged"
<A little initiative? Rare. And merciful. Perhaps we're not so damned
after all... But cease this, that way lies hope, and madness. A paradox,
a paradox, a most ingenious Paradox. Funny, really. You have to laugh.
But not too much...>
Humour. That was always a good defence, an affirmation of Life. Until
that jokester, Nurgle showed that mirth was indeed infectious, and Life
could be purrulent, pustulent and unclean.
"All teams, status report."
"Team One, nominal."
<Team Two, as they say, is no longer with us, and hasn't been for three
thousand years. Yet we remember, we abide, we survive, we do not
change.... >
"Team Three, nominal."
"Team Four in position, settlement Thumis appears empty."
"Team Five, under attack from Class C Orbital Weaponry, no casualties,
evacuating barrage zone."
"Team Six, nominal."
"Team Seven, awaiting orders."
"Quintus, take the rest of Team Seven to settlement Ksarul. Arbites are
probably holed up there with the Godfodder."
"Acknowledged. WILLCO"
<Teams six and seven should be enough to tackle the Judges. Safe from
the Orbital Weaponry too. Just in case though...>
"Team five, execute plan delta alpha, variant seven"
"WILLCO"
<Yes, team five coming through a flanking route should be adequate. On
with the fray. Time I was moving..>
Favius trudged back to the venerable Rhino that was his command HQ.
Another millenium, another world....
Copyright 1997 A.E.Brain.
Certain names mentioned in the above are Copyright Games Workshop PLC
and no challenge to that copyright is intended.
--
aebrain_at_... <> <> How doth the little Crocodile
| Alan & Carmel Brain| xxxxx Improve his shining tail?
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Received on Thu Jul 17 1997 - 09:12:27 UTC
