The Last Full Measure (40K)

[masterarminas]

The Last Full Measure

A work of fiction set within the universe of Warhammer 40K

by

Stephen T Bynum

All rights reserved, 2013


Prologue

Wes Mayne groaned as he lifted arms that felt like lead weights and removed the ancient helm of the Mk VI Power Armor it was his honor to be assigned. Never in his life had he been so exhausted as he was at this moment—but duty called. The inner hatch to the Marine Barracks aboard the Strike Cruiser Deathstalker completed its cycle and locked into place, and Wes Mayne led the final battle-brothers to escape the slaughter below into the bowels of the vessel.

Then he stopped, his eyes growing wide at the sight of his shattered brothers before him. The coppery smell of blood and the odor of burnt flesh assailed his finely tuned senses. But it was the aura of despair that staggered the Space Marine—almost a miasma that clung to the few, the so-very-few survivors. Apothecaries moved amongst the Marines, tending to those whose wounds could be treated—and putting those too seriously injured out of their misery.

The Battle for Mantinjaro—begun just ninety-seven hours earlier—had been a catastrophe, a debacle of epic proportions. The Steel Scorpions Chapter had not been decimated in the surprise assault; no, losing just ten percent of their number would have a been blessing compared to the cost of this campaign. One in five, Wes thought and he shivered at that thought; no more than one in five had survived. Deathstalker was the last remaining Scorpion ship in orbit—the only ship in orbit. The Fortress-Monastery that the Marines called home, and the teeming masses of civilians it had been their duty—their DUTY—to protect . . . all was lost.

“Sergeant Mayne,” a pain-filled voice roused Wes from his thoughts, and he spun around at the recognition of just whose voice had spoken. And he blanched at the sight before him as the remaining blood in his cheeks and face retreated.

“Lord Commander Garin?!” Wes whispered—taking in the sight of the bloody, broken figure lying upon the stretcher . . . and the Apothecary who knelt beside him, shaking his head as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from a score of wounds.

“Where is your Captain, Sergeant Mayne?” Hugh Garin managed to gasp out in question, and then his eyes closed as the Master of the Steel Scorpion Chapter saw the answer in Mayne’s ashen face. They opened again and Garin beckoned Wes close to him with one armored gauntlet.

Wes knelt on the deck, as throughout the compartment the Scorpions stood in silence as they watched the final moments in the life of their leader. Their father. Garin coughed and blood bubbled upon onto his lips; he drew in a deep breath and winced with pain and then he took Wes by the forearm and lifted his other arm—the arm which held a long blade stained dark with the foul blood of Chaos.

“No officer has survived, Sergeant Mayne—and you are the senior,” Garin whispered as he pressed the hilt of Scorpionis Aculeum into Wes’s gauntlet. “To our Chapter did this blade come, Lord Commander Mayne,” and Wes moaned—a moan repeated by the so very few battle brothers who remained. “Passed into our keeping by the Red Scorpions who gave unto us our gene-seed. Given unto them by stewards centuries dead, from the Vaults of Terra. Wielded in the Great Crusade by the Emperor himself . . . the Sting of the Scorpion is now yours to wield—and to guard until it is time for you to pass it along to your successor.”

Garin shuddered as pain wracked his body and he looked past Wes seeing something—someone—not physically there. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he whispered, his eyes focused once again on Wes. “He will preserve your Scorpions and extract your Vengeance.” And with that last word, a rattle shook deep in Garin’s chest and his eyes rolled back in his head—his grip upon the ancient Power Sword loosened and his hand fell to the deck.

The Apothecary set aside his instruments and removing one gauntlet he pressed two fingers against the neck of the Marine before him. He sighed and he stood. “The Lord Commander is dead,” he announced. “Long live Lord Commander Mayne!” he shouted as he knelt to the deck and bowed.

Wes drew in a deep breath and he looked down at the blade which he held, and then he looked at his battle brothers. One by one, each in turn knelt and bowed low. “Long live Lord Commander Mayne!” one cried, and the rest took up the acclamation. “LONG LIVE LORD COMMANDER MAYNE!” the Marines bellowed, the shouts echoing throughout the barracks—throughout the ship. And soon enough, those shouts would be heard throughout the Imperium.

[masterarminas]

I have used some of your advice from this thread (http://bbs.stardestroyer.net/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=158655) and changed up a few things. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my foray into this setting. Any and all advice (and comments) is quite welcome.

MA

[Grimnosh]

I have used some of your advice from this thread (http://bbs.stardestroyer.net/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=158655) and changed up a few things. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my foray into this setting. Any and all advice (and comments) is quite welcome.

MA

So far its a good start.

[masterarminas]

Marines wept without shame as the Apothecary closed Garin’s eyes one final time, and Wes released a deep breath he had realized he was holding. His right arm shook; it trembled as it held the ancient blade that only the Lord Commander of the Steel Scorpions could wield. He looked down at the sword stained with the gore of Traitors and Daemons alike—and someone, not a Marine, caught his eye.

“YOU!” he snapped, his right arm suddenly steady as he pointed the blade at the human Inquisitor who stood among the Scorpions. “For a century now, no one has dared to invade Mantinjaro; for a hundred years our people have known security and safety under our aegis. Yet, two weeks ago, you arrive. You and that Fleet which devastated our world, destroyed our Chapter-House, obliterated our Brethren. The Fleet,” Wes continued as he began to approach the Inquisitor slowly, his battle brothers giving him room to maneuver as he came, “the Fleet which then deserted us. I find the coincidental timing difficult to believe, Inquisitor. Would you care to explain?”

The human swallowed and he shook his head. “I will brief you in private, Lord Commander—my information is not for these comMONNNNNNN,” the Inquisitor never managed to finish his sentence as Wes charged him and taking him by the throat with his left hand slammed the man back into a bulkhead, cutting off his scream.

“These men have earned the right to know, Inquisitor,” Wes hissed, then he released the human to the deck once more. “Why did this happen, Inquisitor . . . ?”

The man rubbed his red neck and he nodded in resignation. “Molt. Inquisitor Danyl Molt. The Ordo Malleus recently uncovered documents that indicated the presence of an . . . artifact upon this world.”

“Daemon-hunters,” growled one Marine wearing Terminator armor. “And we were then attacked by daemons from the Chaos.”

“Easy, Gann,” whispered Wes. “Continue, Inquisitor Molt.”

The veteran Marine nodded at Wes and took a step back and the Inquisitor swallowed again. “We were under orders to find out if the artifact existed. It was described as a great portal . . . a gateway between our reality and Chaos. Sealed long ago, buried and forgotten. Something went . . .,” and Molt winced, “wrong. We found the Gate, Lord Commander, and I was sent back to brief Lord Commander Garin and ask for troops while our people attempted to destroy it. But either through accident or design, the Gate opened and they began attacking before I ever reached the Fortress Monastery. I told all of this to Garin.”

“Accident or design?” Wes asked. “You believe that there was a traitor on your expedition?”

“I do not know,” Molt answered quietly. “But the Fleet that was here to . . . provide backstop in case of a . . . disaster; the Fleet opened fire on your own station and ships almost immediately after the Gateway was opened. Then they fired on the Gateway itself and departed—but by then tens of thousands of Daemons and Traitor Marines had come through. How they missed this ship,” and the Inquisitor shrugged.

“Deathstalker was in the outer system—she arrived just hours ago to take aboard what few survivors we have,” Wes said quietly. “Why did your Fleet not perform an Extermintus?”

Shocked Marines inhaled sharply . . . but others, older and wiser in the ways of Imperium just nodded in agreement at the question.

“There is a Daemonic infestation down there that will require a Crusade to remove; why did your Fleet not just finish the job?”

Molt sighed again. “That, Lord Commander, is yet another piece of evidence as to design rather than accident. However, this ship has the capability and I believe that . . .,” but he was interrupted.

“Quite, Inquisitor Molt. Ship Master Harrin—have you been listening?”

“I have, Lord Commander Mayne. What are your orders?” the vox communicator broadcast.

“Prep all available atmospheric incinerator torpedoes . . . and perform a saturation bombardment of the planetary surface upon my authorization.”

“Understood, Lord Commander,” the voice replied. “Three minutes until launch.”

“You understand, Mayne,” Molt said sadly, “if they believe any of us survived, we are being listed as renegades even as we speak. And if you order Extermintus upon this world you are destroying any evidence down there to contradict their claims.”

“Which is why we will return to our progenitor Chapter and explain our actions to the Lord High Commander of the Red Scorpions,” Wes answered. “And we will see justice delivered for our brethren and all those lost innocents upon the planet below.”

Molt pursed his lips, but he did not reply. Truth, he had long ago learned as an Inquisitor, mattered little to many servants of the Imperium. Honor even less. And justice? Justice wasn’t blind—she was dead.

“Launching now,” Harrin broadcast.

“Secundum magnam misericordiam quam iuravit imperator acciperet sibi animus hoc profectus nostri dilectissimi fratres, ideo se corporis facit in terra, terra, terra et cinis cineris pulvis in terram suam: in recreantur in resurrectionem vitae aeternae per imperatorem qui reformabit corpus humilitatis nostrae, ut sit sicut corpori gloriae suae secundum operationem, qua etiam possit subjicere sibi omnia,” Chaplain Jan Suchet intoned slowly as the cruiser vibrated with the launching of the weapons.*

Wes frowned as the naked sword he still held in one hand twitched and he swore as the holy sigils and runes etched into the metal and inlaid with sacred silver began to glow a light blue shade. Scorpionis Aculeum did so only in the presence of Chaos . . . a gift bestowed upon the Blade by the Emperor himself during the Horus Heresy so many millennia ago.

His head snapped up and he snarled. “We are being boarded! To arms, Scorpions! Every man grab a bolter, a flamer, a melta, or a knife! Defend this vessel from the forces of Chaos!”

Alarms began to blare and sirens sounded, and emergency lights snapped on with a crimson glow . . . and still Wes and the survivors of the fight on the planet below could hear the screams of the crew as the Daemons and Traitor Marines teleported aboard.

“For Hugh Gavin! For our Brothers who have been slain! For the Emperor!” Wes cried as the hatch to the barracks exploded inward and a horde of Death Guard and Plague Bearers emerged. “CHARGE!”


*Loosely translated as “Forasmuch as it hath pleased the Emperor of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brothers here departed, we therefore commit their bodies to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through the Emperor; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”

NOTE: I hope my translation software didn’t screw it up too bad.

MA

[Grimnosh]

This should be good. The Death Guard are tough in close quarters combat and quite nasty in short range firefights which is what a boarding action is all about. Given that Death Guard use meltas and flamers I expect the Steel Scorpion survivors are about to become even fewer. I also read drakensis's comment about a ship's crew on the thread where you were asking for some help:

"Besides that, crews of 40K ships are usually sizeable populations - numbering tens of thousands. A 44 year voyage wouldn't be an everyday event but there's no especial reason that the crew would die out - if nothing else they'd probably have children and raise them to join the crew in turn."

But he forgot one critical detail in it, and that is the supplies of food and air onboard will limit how long the crew can survive. While the Astaries can survive for a while as they have a touch less concern for/about cannibalism and can also survive on the cockroaches and rats onboard, the rest of the crew may well not have such limits. A 44 year journey is beyond what most ships can endure unless fully prepared for it, which is what I believe the Deathstalker is not ready for. In addition depending on where the battles onboard are at, the amount of supplies stockpiled may not matter. I wouldn't want to eat anything in a hold where one or more Plaguebearers were "killed" at, let alone a Plague Marine. As far as I know Imperial ships do not have a hydroponic garden or station onboard with the crew surviving on canned rations. Some ships may have sectors with livestock (mainly grox) but not all do.

[masterarminas]

“Sto velox!” commanded Molt in High Gothic—and the Plaguebearer Daemons of Nurgle stood fast crying out with pain as they fought against an invisible barrier to their advance.

Scorpionis Aculeum sliced through one Daemon and then the next, and Wes raised his bolt pistol to fire a burst of armor-penetrating bolts through the helmet visor worn by one of the Traitor Marines of the Death Guard. Frowning, he turned his head to the Inquisitor . . . who stood unsteadily, one shaking hand held out before him with sweat cascading down his forehead and cheeks.

“Sanctuary holds the Daemons at bay,” the human gasped, “but only the Daemons. I cannot maintain the ward for long, Lord Commander.”

“KILL THE PSYKER!” shouted a Champion of the Death Guard, who pointed his own blade at Molt—but Wes stepped between the trembling human and the Traitors, the Sting of the Scorpion held in a defensive guard.

But before Wes could move against the Death Guard, brilliant twinned beams of light tore across the barracks—slicing through the Traitors and spilling corrupted offal that was once flesh unto the deck. The Traitors recoiled and even their Champion took a step back as an ancient Dreadnought—the last surviving Dreadnought of the Steel Scorpions advanced.

“I have a better idea, Traitor—I SHALL DESTROY YOU!” the mechanical voice screamed as the twin linked Lascannons swiveled unto their target; the power claw of the machine-Marines left hand clicking in anticipation. Two cyan beams lashed out again and tore through the armor worn by the Champion—the corpse swayed as it flesh smoldered and smoked and then it fell and the Death Guard flinched.

“Aye, Scorpions!” cheered Wes as he fired another burst into a fleeing Traitor. “Follow Brother Ibril and cleanse this filth from our vessel! Leave not one Traitor alive! Nor the Daemon-spawn they serve!”

“VICTORY OR DEATH!” thundered Brother Gann as his Terminator squad flanked the Dreadnought and began to pursue their ancient foes.

The Daemons as well fled and in their wake came Astartes eager to extract their vengeance upon the corrupt and foul flesh of the creatures. Only six did not join the pursuit—six Marines who formed a defensive circle around their new Chapter Master . . . and the Inquisitor, now on his knees as his ward finally fell.

“For an Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus,” Wes softly said, “you fail to live up to expectations—and I haven’t yet seen your Inquisitorial Seal, now have I?”

“Th-that is because I have not yet received it, Lord Commander,” the human stammered as he stood.

“An Approbator, then? A mere Acolyte? You are no more an Inquisitor than I, are you not?”

Danyl Molt jerked his head up and his eyes flashed with a spark of psychic fury—a brief spark, and then his shoulders slumped again. “An Inquisitor gains his rank and title in one of two ways, Lord Commander. He is judged by a Tribunal of his superiors and awarded both—or he assumes the duties of his fallen mentor in the name of His Imperial Majesty on the field of battle. I have done the latter—I am an Inquisitor.”

Wes snorted. “One sent to inform Garin of the Gateway—tell me, ‘Inquisitor’ . . . how many assignments in the field have you performed for the Ordo Malleus?”

Molt looked down at the floor and he blushed—he blushed! Only the enhanced hearing of an Adeptus Astarte allowed Wes to hear the whispered answer: “Mantinjaro was my first field assignment as Inquisitor Pyrel’s apprentice.”

Wes chuckled and Molt looked him in the eye, but the Space Marine shook his head. “Well, boy, before this day is complete, an Inquisitor you will be in deed, not merely by name. That or you will be dead. Are you armed?”

Molt drew and held up an elegant Needle Pistol and Wes laughed—the guard detail joining in. “Cyric, get the Inquisitor a real weapon.” One of the guards handed Molt a priceless Mars-pattern Inferno pistol from a case on the wall.

“No recoil, boy,” the veteran Marine snapped. “A bolt pistol would shatter your wrist—and that piece there will incinerate even a Traitor Marine in full power armor. Watch your capacitor cells and fuel levels—it burns through its supply fast.”

“Enough, Scorpions,” Wes commanded as he slid a fresh bolt magazine home and chambered a round. “We have Daemons and Traitors to kill. If the ‘Inquisitor’ would care to accompany us?” And Wes grinned. “Unless you want to go off hunting Daemons on your own, that is?”

“If the Lord Commander would allow it, I believe that my place is here, alongside him where my knowledge—and powers—would best serve us and our cause,” Molt answered, this time without a stammer in his voice; the brief respite from combat having somewhat restored his strength—and his spirit.

Slowly, the Lord Commander nodded his head. Good. The lad had spirit and fire in his belly after all. “Then let us begin.”

[masterarminas]

Gann cursed as a half-squad of Astartes were engulfed in flame and fire—their armor literally melting from the heat of the assault of the sustained barrage of the Traitor Marines and their fondness for flamers and meltas. The Scorpions frenzied assault had pushed the Death Guard and their Plaguebearer daemon companions back . . . but now the Traitors had rallied. In the close confines of the Strike Cruiser, the heavy long-range weapons that so many of the Scorpion battle-brothers favored were at a significant disadvantage to the powerful short-range guns carried by their foes.

But not all of the corridors were narrow and cramped, and if the Scorpions had suffered so too had the enemy before them. Up ahead, just past the final blocking point where the Traitors had marshaled their defenses, lay one of the main transit corridors—forty meters wide and twenty meters tall, running the entire length of the massive ship from stem to stern.

No fools these opponents, Gann thought with a curse; they knew well that if the Scorpions could drive them from the warren of small personnel quarters and equipment rooms and into the open spaces of the Via Deathstalker, the casualty pendulum would swing once again. And so they were fighting manically for every last centimeter of deck space; the Traitors buying time for the Daemons to cleave through—and infect—the Chapter-serfs who made up the bulk of the crew.

“Tanner, Kohl,” he barked at two of the veteran Terminators, “open a path.” His heart sank even as he gave that order, knowing that neither were likely to survive—but he also knew that the two of them would shatter the defenses that the Traitors had hurriedly thrown into his path. If Brother Ibril had been here, the Dreadnought would have led the assault himself—but these corridors were too tight for the massive machine into which the personality and knowledge of the long-fallen Scorpion had been implanted. He had been forced to try and outrace the Daemons to another passage that lay kilometers away in the bowels of the ship.

“Aye, Gann,” Kohl answered simply as he chambered fresh rounds in his storm bolter. “I’ll see you in Hell, Battle Brother.”

“Can’t be too much worse than this,” added Tanner as the Marine armed the heavy missiles in his Cyclone launcher, “Hell, I mean. Besides, think of the glory and honor your gene-seed will give to the next generation, Kohl.”

Kohl snorted. “Roasted gene-seed isn’t all that good for implantation, Tanner.”

“You know, even after eighty-three years serving together, Kohl, you still don’t get the basic concept of humor.”

“Oh, I get it, you just aren’t that funny, mate.”

Now Gann snorted and then he lifted his chain-fist in a salute. “Go, Scorpions. Go and do the Emperor’s Will upon the Unclean.”

“We who are about to die salute you,” Tanner and Kohl answered—but at that moment, a massive explosion shook the entire deck.

*********************************************************

“Tech-Sergeant Chan,” the lesser Techmarine protested again, “our Brothers are dying out there! Yet, we remain here—the access-way are too constricted for this! We must add our bolter fire to those of the Brothers; not cower here like cowards!”

Lucien Chan turned his gaze upon the Techmarine and then he spat upon the deck. “If you want to throw away your life, Vall, go right ahead. As for me, I’m coming to the aid of my Battle Brothers—with the full force of what armor this Chapter has remaining!”

“The tanks cannot fit through the access-ways, Chan!” the same Marine bellowed. “And even if they could, you want to use heavy weapons inside the ship? Are you mad?”

“Perhaps,” Chan answered with a crooked grin. “Nikolia! Are the melta-charges set?”

“Aye, Tech-Sergeant; set and waiting for your command to activate” another of the Astartes engineer-warriors answered as he climbed aboard his Sabre tank hunter in line behind the Tech-Sergeants own Land Raider. Behind the Sabre waited a Predator, and then another Land Raider, followed by seven idling Rhinos, four Land Speeders—and one very pissed off Dreadnought.

“In my day, such an insolent Marine would have been terminated on the spot,” Brother Ibril broadcast as he clicked his power claws. “Are you certain this will work, Tech-Sergeant Chan? Have you used enough explosives?”

“Aye, Brother Ibril, enough and just enough—in demolitions there is such a thing as too much, you realize. But the melta-bombs and the cutting charges will tear asunder these bulkheads—and bypass that labyrinth of personnel corridors. We will emerge upon the Via Deathstalker,” and Chan bared his teeth. “And we will do so behind the Traitors.”

“Then do so,” Ibril’s harsh voice grated through the vocalizer, “and may the Emperor give to us the Victory this day.”

Chan stood in the turret of the lead vehicle and he armed the twin-linked Heavy Bolters. “Prepare yourselves, my Brothers,” he said over the transmitter, “for battle awaits.” And then he clicked the remote twice.

The roar of the explosives and the heat of the melta-bombs shook the entire ship—but when the smoke cleared, three armored bulkheads had massive gaps torn through them . . . and the main transit corridors awaited them beyond. Complete with hordes of Plaguebearers and Nurgllings and other Daemonic spawn from the Eye of Terror and the Warp.

Chan squeezed the twin thumb keys and the bolters began to spit fury into their ranks; the sponson mounted twin-linked lascannons normally part of a Land Raider’s armament had been replaced on this vehicle by another pair of twin-linked Heavy Bolters—and the hail of fire tore a gap in the Daemonic ranks ahead.

“Goose it!” ordered Chan as he continued to sweep the corridor. Belching smoke from its exhaust the Land Raider ground forward; its treads squashing Daemons too slow, too wounded, or too stupid to get out of the way of the mighty war-machine.

[Grimnosh]

An armored charge inside a Strike Cruiser, that's going to be fun. My only nitpick is that the Steel Scorpions would not have a Sabre Tank Destroyer available to them as its history shows that it was produced either slightly before or during the Horus Hersey (30th and 31st millennium) and production dropped like a brick after that. In general only First and Second Founding chapters would potentially have any (at the very best) as they had been replaced with Land Raider and Predators tanks for anti armor use plus the inability of the Imperium to produce let alone maintain the Laser Destroyer main weapon system of the Sabre.

As the Steel Scorpions are supposed to be around an 18th founding (somewhere around the 37 or 38th millennium) the Sabre would not be available as it was no longer produced for new chapters and the few remaining Forge Worlds capable of producing the Laser Destroyer primary weapon of the tank would have had those weapons earmarked for those chapters that actually possessed a Sabre plus the much more common (in comparison) Imperial Guard Destroyer Tank Hunter.

[Eternal_Freedom]

That nitpick will allow MA to write in a flashback chapter showing Brother Ibril "acquiring" one from another chapter that, shall we say, no longer has need of it.

However, an armored assault aboard ship. I thought Space Marines were crazy, but these guys are something special.

[Grimnosh]

That nitpick will allow MA to write in a flashback chapter showing Brother Ibril "acquiring" one from another chapter that, shall we say, no longer has need of it.

However, an armored assault aboard ship. I thought Space Marines were crazy, but these guys are something special.

It'd be one hell of a flashback. A vehicle like that would be in essence very similar to a chapter heirloom, just under something used by the Primarch, be it a cup he drank from to the toilet seat he used. Its not something anyone under damned near any reason would ever give up and if he "acquired" it from a traitor legion... well the expression hell to pay would really kick in should any loyalist forces ever find out. Mind that with their parent chapter, the Steel Scorpions would likely destroy anything captured from traitor forces out of hand regardless of how old or rare it is, and damn the consequences (let alone any other institution including the Inquisition) of what anyone else thinks.

[masterarminas]

Gaius Jankmon watched as his Brothers-in-Arms were torn to pieces by the Daemons; his lips moved in a soundless prayer to the Emperor as he consigned the souls of those scouts to eternity. The light armor and weapons worn and carried by the neophyte Scorpions gave little protection against the claws and fangs of the Daemons—but their sacrifice gave Gaius time to get into position and target their leader . . . a Great Unclean One.

He settled the sights of his sniper rifle upon the foul breast of the creature—directly over where the hearts should be . . . and he exhaled smoothly as his finger slowly contracted. The BAM of the report and sudden recoil caught him by surprise—as it should—and he worked the bolt to load another of the massive heavy bullets.

The creature roared with pain and it turned to face Gaius; just as the second bullet lodged in its neck. It began to charge and the Astartes got a third round, the bullet shredding the Daemon’s shoulder joint and pulling it off-balance. A fourth round went down-range and into its belly, and then the fifth joined the first over the hearts of the Chaos-spawn made flesh.

But despite five wounds from a weapon powerful enough to lay low an Astartes, still the Daemon charged forward. Without time to reload, Gaius dropped the rifle and he stood—his combat knife held before him. He was dead; he knew that and he accepted that and he prepared to do his best to take with him the leader and commander of the Daemonic incursion.

That was when a gout of flame engulfed the Great Unclean One—and the Daemon slammed into the silver shield of an Inquisitorial ward.

“Back to the Chaos of the Warp, foul beast!” Molt cried as he fired another shot from the Inferno pistol, sweat pooling on his forehead as he strained to maintain the barrier. “In the Name of His Imperial Majesty, I command thee! BACK!”

“Such barriers are but momentary obstacles to me, Inquisitor,” the Beast snarled. “I shall have you both, suffering for all of eternity within the Eye of Terror.”

“You will find that I am not alone, Daemon,” Molt snapped back as he fired a third shot; the exertion to maintain the barrier ward had forced the young Inquisitor to his knees, even as Gaius struggled to hand-load fresh shells in his rifle.

“Aye, Daemon,” a powerful voice spoke as a small group of Marines emerged from passages to the flanks—the one who spoke wielded an ancient Power Sword which sliced through the flesh and corruption of the Great Unclean One and it bellowed in pain. “No Astartes—no Inquisitor—no Chapter-serf on this vessel stands alone! Not as long as a single Scorpion draws breath!”

Beset on all sides, the Great Unclean One struck out and an Apothecary went flying into the bulkhead; but chain-swords and bolter pistols and power swords and force axes and inferno rounds hammered the beast—joined at last by the impacts of the scout’s sniper rifle. Still the Daemon fought back and Wes groaned as his armor was rent by the adamantine claws of the creature; his flesh pierced and torn beneath. Dropping his bolt pistol, the newly ordained Chapter Master—ordained in the truest Adeptus Astartes manner, in the midst of battle—took hold of Scorpionis Aculeum with both hands and as the Great Unclean One lifted him from the deck, he plunged the Holy blade deep within the rotten skull; it sank in to the hilt and the Daemon wailed in agony before he collapsed to the deck . . . his flesh bubbling and dissolving into a pool of contagious lethal pathogens.

With the death of the leader, the remaining Daemons fled for the safety of the Warp, leaving only a few handfuls of Traitors behind to cover their retreat. Too few to resist the utter fury shown by the Astartes of the Steel Scorpions Chapter.

Wes extended his hand to Danyl Molt and helped him back to his feet, and then he nodded his approval at the scout who reloaded yet again, not quite convinced that the worst was over. But it was. All but the reckoning of the dead.

*********************************************************

“Status, Ship-master?” Wes asked hours later in the conference room—the uncontaminated conference room where every last surviving Astartes gathered. All ninety-seven of them.

Harrin shook his head. “Deathstalker is badly wounded, Lord Commander Mayne,” he reported. “The Daemons tore through my crew and their families; they have contaminated two-thirds of the ship and killed more than thirty thousand of those aboard. They have damaged the generators that allow us to cruise through the Warp—and killed both the Navigator and his assistants. We may well be able to enter the Warp . . . but if we do and the generator fails, we may never leave,” he said with a sigh.

“Whether it was your weapons fire or that of the Traitors, or the claws of the Daemons, we have but one space-normal engine remaining operable. ONE. We are lamed, our sensors have suffered so much damage that we are mostly blind, and the gun-decks are heavily contaminated with diseased corpses; were I to order the men to their stations, we would lose every gunner we have remaining within the hour.”

“Have them wear environmental suits,” Wes said with a shrug. “But I understand you point, Ship-master. I do not intend to seek out battle, but should it find us,” and Wes looked deep into the old Naval Officer’s eyes as he said this, “I expect your crew to do their duty as much as my Marines have done theirs.”

Harrin drew in a deep breath of air and he nodded. “There is good news, my Lord. The Daemons failed in their attempt to fully infect our food and water stores; we lost two-thirds of those aboard, but we have sufficient clean water, provisions, and air to last for . . . quite some time with our reduced numbers. And with the assistance of your Techmarines, I might be able to repair some of our engines and sensors,” he paused and winced, “but the Warp generator I dare not risk using.”

“Understood,” Wes said bluntly. “Distance to nearest Imperial system?”

“At our best acceleration and deceleration,” Harrin said softly, “we might arrive in forty or fifty years. Provided that the fuel reserves last that long. If we coast, we are assured of having fuel at our destination—but that will multiply our travel time by an order of magnitude.”

“I see,” Wes answered. “Inquisitor, can you contact the Imperium, as our Librarians were capable of?” The single surviving Librarian of the Chapter was young, newly promoted, and lacked the strength to speak across the vast distances of turbulent space.

“No. I have never had the training,” and Molt’s voice fell, “and from what I understand such communication is very draining; I doubt that I have the strength to achieve it . . . yet.”

Wes rubbed his scalp and he nodded. “Very well. We will make certain that this ship has been cleansed—of contamination and infestation both. In the meantime, Ship-Master Harrin, you will set course for the nearest Imperial system, which is . . . ?”

“Tanith, Lord Commander.”

“Tanith,” Wes mused, but nothing emerged from his memory. Which meant that like most systems claimed by the Imperium, it was likely primitive and undeveloped. “Tech-Sergeant Chan,” he continued as he shook his head, “I want all armor, weapons, and vehicles inspected, serviced, and repaired—including those of the fallen. The corrupt and accursed equipment of the Traitors will be jettisoned, but our own must now be saved.”

He looked out across the ninety-five faces of his surviving Marines—including four Scouts—and the one metal sensor cluster of the Dreadnought Brother Ibril. “We are all that remains, Battle Brothers,” he said softly. “Apothecaries, you must collect as much gene-seed as possible, as quickly as possible; it must be screened for infection. Corrupt material will be discarded. Brother Gann,” he addressed the Terminator. “How many Terminator suits can we restore?”

Gann frowned. “Eight veterans from the First Company survived, Lord Commander. I have another nine suits which might be repaired—plus the three worn by Lord Commander Garin and his personal guard. They might be restored, if Chan can devote some time to them.”

“And vehicles?”

Chan nodded. “Not good, my Lord. We lost the Predator and two Rhinos during the battle—and all four of our Land Speeders. I might get two of the Speeders back on-line, but the rest?” He shrugged. “It would take an Emperor-be-damned miracle to restore them.” And then he grinned. “Damned if I know what will ever finally kill that venerable Sabre the Chapter had in storage—eight millennia old that bloody thing is, and didn’t get a single scratch in the battle! Not one. I know that the Red Scorpions claim it was cursed, after they . . . acquired it from the Dark Angels, that is . . . and the events of the last few days may have proven them right; but at the moment it is purring right along like a kitten; working absolutely perfectly.”

“Chaplain Suchet?”

Jan Suchet shook his head. “Between Olin and I we are well able to care for the spiritual well-being of our Scorpions, but many—most—of our relics have been lost.”

“Yes, I was actually going to ask you to survey the Chapter-serfs and determine how many of them are qualified to serve as emergency hosts for the gene-seed that Apothecary Tam will be harvesting.”

Suchet jerked, his eyes growing wide in shock, and many of the Marines present also looked on the Chapter Master with horror. “They have all failed the tests, Lord Commander! That is why they are Chapter-serfs!”

“That and we are limited to a thousand Astartes at any one time, Chaplain. And some of them failed by a very narrow margin; look around you!” Wes bellowed as he stood, extending one arm across the room. “Ninety-seven of us remain—NINETY-SEVEN! If we are to survive, we must begin to rebuild. Immediately. Shall I ask Tam to take upon him the burden that is rightfully yours, Chaplain Suchet?”

“No. NO,” snarled the spiritual leader of the Scorpions as he raised his Crozius Arcanum towards the overhead in a gesture of reverence. “The Emperor wills that in desperate times, desperate measures are required that are sometimes . . . at odds,” and Suchet winched, “with the Codex. I will fulfill my duty, Lord Commander; of that you may not fear.”

“I have no doubts therein, Chaplain Suchet. Tam?”

“Most of the wounded will recover in a few days—if not sooner, if they can have some hours of rest and decent food. I’ve got myself and four more Apothecaries, so we will be busy over the next few weeks, I’m certain. The ship’s lockers have more than ample supplies of pharma and medical gear, so we are looking good in that area.”

“Good. Then let’s get to work, my Brothers. We have much to do,” and Wes watched as the few remaining Scorpions filed from the conference room.

[Grimnosh]

97 surviving marines. Well the Emperor's Children went from less then 100 to some 10, 000+ strong before, so its quite possible for a Chapter to recover. Mind that many Chapters often have less then a thousand marines at any one time so its not a requirement for them to reach the 1k mark.

The Sabre was originally owned by the Blood Angels, acquired from them (now there is a tale worth telling, probably involving a long night of cards, a hand of aces over eights and an over abundance of Fenrisian ale), and is supposedly cursed. I am surprised that it would be in storage on a Strike Cruiser rather then on a Battlebarge or the Fortress Monastery but it is possible.

As for their final destination.... Tanith. For those who have never read any of the Gaunt's Ghosts series go and pick them up, they are a great read. At any rate, we do not know if it is before or after the Founding of the Tanith First and Only, so if its before, one can only imagine what will be there. Well somewhat. Orks would likely been noted and the Tanith PDF would have been stronger to deal with any that were around before and during Tanith's fall. They also would have been able to put up far more of a fight during the invasion too. No mention has ever been made of Eldar (both corrupted or pure), but considering the Inquisition, that would be normal. The Tau have not risen yet, and Tanith is far from the Damocolis Gulf anyway. Tyranids.... well there wouldn't have been anything left of the place beyond a dry airless rock if they ever visited.

As for after the Founding I would figure that the Chaos forces would have left as they had killed everything on the planet, and there would have been nothing there to interest them after as it was an agricultural world with an otherwise low population (now extinct) and minor mineral production, outside of strategic position on the galactic map to be of use. There could have been leavings, but it is unlikely. Orks could have claimed the planet to pick over the remains though. As for Tyranids and Eldar... well there just isn't anything of note left after the disaster of the Founding to interest any of them, and the Tau should still be outside of contact time and well out of the range of their influence anyway.

[masterarminas]

Okay, I goofed. I used Tanith as a homage to Pournelle and Piper, both of whom had a world named that in their works; I was NOT aware that it exists (and has been written about) in the 40K universe. It has now been changed to Tanit, an alternate spelling of the original name of the goddess in question.

MA

[masterarminas]

Chapter One: The Awakening

Cyrus Vann strode into the magnificent office complex; he did not merely walk, nor did he arrogantly strut—each of his measured steps was taken with purpose and the echoes of his boot heels upon the polished granite floor were the only sound within the chamber. The crowded chamber, Cyrus observed with a frown.

He strode around the table, passing by advisors and ministers—military and civilian alike—by the Presiding Confessor of Tanit, Bel Chain, by the stoic and unmoving Lord Commissar who preserved the purity of Cyrus’ own Imperial Guard, Kaleb Layne. And many, many others as well were present.

He strode until he stood beside his seat—the seat of the Planetary Governor who ruled Tanit in the name of the Emperor—and he sat, followed by all of those assembled.

“Good morning,” Cyrus said, although the words conveyed absolutely no pleasure, “a very early morning I might add.” After all, it was still three hours before dawn outside the walls of the Governor’s Palace Fortress. “Gentlemen, I trust that this matter is urgent enough to wake me before the start of a busy day?”

“We thought so, otherwise you would still be sleeping in the arms of your mistress,” Kaleb said dryly. “Your opinion may differ, of course, my Lord Governor.”

Cyrus glared at the hard-bitten, immaculately attired Kaleb—but it was Cyrus who looked away with a slight shiver. Kaleb’s lips twitched slightly at the failed effort to intimidate him, and the Planetary Governor flushed with anger . . . and shame.

“Then tell me,” he growled.

Out of the mass of aides seated at the table, one wearing the robes of the Adeptus Astronomica tapped a control built into the table, and a holographic image of the Tanit system appeared. “As my Lord is aware, a week ago we detected an approaching space hulk that will pass through this system very close to this planet.” A red line with a pulsing dot appeared on the hologram, solid up to the dot and broken on its projected course thereafter. “At the time we believed that this object . . .,” but his words were interrupted.

“You woke me for this?” Cyrus snapped. “By your own projections—which you gave me five days ago!—this hulk poses no threat. The velocity is too high to successful launch shuttles and it will not collide with any planetary body within the system! It is a dead ship, nothing more—that is what you assured me of!”

“That was before the hulk lit off her drives and began to decelerate,” Kaleb barked, and then he nodded as Cyrus blinked. “That is no dead ship out there, my Lord Governor—it is slowing to enter planetary orbit around Tanit . . . and will do so in the next eight days.”

“WHAT?” the governor bellowed as he half-stood. And then he gained control of himself and he sat back down. “Contact High Marshal Nimrod Grudge; tell him we need the assistance of his Harbingers immediately!”

The representative of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica shook his head. “Warp storms have delayed such transmissions, Lord Governor Vann—and even if we were able to contact the Harbingers immediately, contingency plans indicate that it would be at least fourteen days before any response could arrive . . . that is if the High Marshal is able to muster and dispatch a force within twelve hours of receiving our communicade. We will continue to attempt make contact with Birmingham—indeed, we have already made contact with other systems and asked that they convey our message.”

Cyrus worked his jaw, but Kaleb’s even voice spoke up before the governor could lash out—again. “We must deal with this on our own at the present, Lord Governor—I need your authority to mobilize the Planetary Defense Force along with the standing Imperial Guard. Immediately, in fact.”

“Done,” Cyrus ground out. “What else do we know about this vessel? I recall that you mentioned a probe in our last meeting?”

The robed scientist-priest of the Adeptus Astronomica nodded. “Indeed, your memory is quite good, Lord Governor. The probe passed by the vessel earlier this evening—and while the closing rates of velocity were quite high, it was able to capture the following images.” He pressed his controls again and picture after picture appeared in the hologram, showing first the distant engine clusters firing, and then enlarged, and as the probe the passed and the sensor camera swung, a view of the side and bow as the massive ship thrusted to eat away at its massive velocity and maneuver into orbit.

“That is an Astarte Cruiser!” Cyrus spat.

“Indeed,” Kaleb answered in a quiet voice. “A Strike Cruiser of the Undaunted-class; at full strength, it could carry an entire Company of Astartes plus support elements and has the firepower to conduct Extermintus should that be required. But the specific Chapter of Astartes to which that belongs; ah, my Lord Governor, that is the reason you needed to be awoken.”

The Commissar zoomed in on an image upon the nose of the ship and Cyrus frowned. “Is that a Scorpion? Why are the Red Scorpions sending a ship here?”

“There are other Chapters that have a Scorpion as their symbol, my Lord Governor; the Star Scorpions, for example disappeared into the Warp—the fate unknown. But this symbol is that of the Steel Scorpions—the Chapter which had its home on Mantinjaro.”

Cyrus drew in a deep breath and his eyes widened. “But Mantinjaro has been a Dead World for more than four centuries! The entire Chapter of the Steel Scorpions died on Mantinjaro fighting against Chaos! The world was consigned to the fire to defeat the Invasion!”

“So we were told, Lord Governor,” Kaleb answered softly, but then he pointed to the image on the ship. “But it would appear that there were survivors, either Marines or Chaos, one or the other—and they are coming here, my Lord. What are your orders?”