Editing The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Ten (section)

==0-052-001-M42==
Terra was on the verge now. The rebellions had spread, turning from simple riots and civil disorder to a full-on uprising in the heart of the Imperium. Entire hives were aflame, and the Inquisition itself had mobilized to protect the Astronomican, which had actually been threatened by a small army of enraged rioters. The Palace’s walls had not yet been breached, but there had been a few close calls, wherein whole platoons of Arbites and PDF had been forced to incinerate columns of rioters that had got too close. The Arbites forces stationed on Mars, Luna, and the other thirty void stations, planets, and moons in the Solar system were streaming now, descending in their red and gray starships to restore order to Terra. The Inquisitorial and Grey Knight forces that lingered in the system had been ordered to the Palace by the Emperor himself, to replace the outgoing Custodes, though even the Inquisitorial representatives of the Ordo Hereticus had been sortied a few times. Now, word was reaching the Emperor’s massive orange ears that even the wealthier hives were starting to revolt, along with some hives that the Custodes were assaulting.

True to his prediction, the fact that the Companions –his own guard – were leading the charge had calmed some of the rioters down; the heartfelt sermon delivered by the Ecclesiarch to the populace , written by the Emperor himself, had calmed many of the rest. Still, a wildfire in a lumberyard is hard to extinguish, and there were several hives that had been consumed entirely in the conflagration of heresy. There was no denying it now: while most of the rioters had just been terrified Imperial citizens, some were openly calling for the reborn Emperor’s death, claiming that he had betrayed everything for which the Imperium stood.

That, however, was the last thing on the Emperor’s mind, now. Mere moments before, his son Vulkan had strode into the Hall of the Throne, resplendent in his new armor, and bent the knee to his father.

“My Emperor, I am once more at your service,” he said, helmet tucked under his arm.

“RISE, MY SON. IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU WELL AGAIN. ARE YOU FEELING BETTER?”

“I am indeed, Sire,” Vulkan said, replacing his helmet with a hiss of air. “I ask your forgiveness for my earlier comments.” He’Stan and Tu’Shan both stared at Vulkan, their mouths agape, but the Emperor merely smiled with his horrible mouth.

“AS I SAID BEFORE, VULKAN, THERE IS NOTHING TO FORGIVE. YOU WERE BEING TORTURED, WHAT DOES IT BEHOLD US TO HOLD YOU ACCOUNTABLE FOR YOUR TONE? I AM RATHER MORE INTERESTED IN WHAT YOU’VE GOT, THERE.”

“This, father, is a gift from my Battle Brothers, Forgefather He’Stan,” he said, pointing at the Forgefather, “and Chapter Regent Master Tu’Shan, Lord of the Drakes,” he said gesturing at the younger man in turn. “They belabored to create this work of art at your command, in fact.”

“IT’S A HELL OF A LOT BETTER THAN THE ONE I WAS WEARING AT THE END,” the Emperor roared, half-joking. “THOSE ARE FASCINATING ACCOUTREMENTS. ARE THEY THOSE ARTEFACTS OF YOURS?”

“Indeed, Sire. Not all, but enough to turn the tide of a battle. On that note,” Vulkan said, his voice darkening, “I saw hives aflame on my flight in. What’s going on here?”

“I SUSPECT THAT A TAINT, TOO LONG DISMISSED, IS SPREADING, MY SON,” the Emperor said angrily, “AND IT’S MY OWN DAMN FAULT.”

“Sire?” Vulkan prompted. “What do you mean?”

“THE RIOTS HAVE CEASED, FOR THE MOST PART. NOW, INSTEAD, WE HAVE SOMETHING FAR WORSE. ENTIRE HIVES BURN BECAUSE THE HIVERS ARE BURNING THEM. IT WASN’T THE INCENDIARY ZEAL OF THE BATTLE SISTERS THAT CAUSED THOSE FIRES,” the Emperor said, his tone grim.

“Why would the hivers burn themselves?” Vulkan asked, nonplussed.

“BECAUSE THEY’RE OUT OF CONTROL,” the Emperor said. “THEY’RE NOT IMPERIAL CITIZENS ANY MORE, THOSE BASTARDS. YOU, MY SON, WILL PERSONALLY LEAD THE ATTACK AGAINST THEM.”

“As you so will it, Sire, so it shall be,” Vulkan said. “I am still confused as to our foes’ behavior.”

“NOT FOR MUCH LONGER. GO. MY REMAINING COMPANIONS WILL JOIN YOU, AND WHATEVER ELEMENTS OF THE NAVY AND SALAMANDERS YOU BROUGHT WITH YOU,” the Emperor said. “INQUISITOR VALENTINE WILL INFORM YOU OF YOUR FOES.”

Vulkan nodded to acknowledge the dismissal, and turned on his heel, the other two Salamanders falling in behind him. The ranks of Custodes, PDF, Guardsmen, Salamanders, and Naval Provosts that had accompanied Vulkan to his father’s throne room stood to attention. Vulkan raised the Spear over his head and spoke. “Warriors of the Imperium, our orders are given. We are to descend into the hives that are still resisting the advance of the Arbites and Sororitas, and cleanse the heretics that have destroyed them. If there are innocents to be found, we will evacuate them, but the hivers are burning down their own homes now. Do what must be done.” He clipped the Spear back into its sling across his armor and gestured grandly towards the far end of the hallway. “Victoria, Vita, quod Vires ut Imperium! Ave Imperator!”


The Imperial column trooped out to one of the Palace’s many landing pads, marching straight up the boarding ramps into the waiting troop ships. Vulkan was marshaling the Companions, who were understandably unused to such boarding actions, when an Astartes in a model of armor he didn’t recognize walked up to him. Before Vulkan could say a word, the Marine held up a hand. “Lord Vulkan, an honor. Lord Draigo, Grey Knights.”

Vulkan gripped the proffered gauntlet. “Lord Draigo. Is there something I can do for you? I don’t remember seeing your units slated for deployment with mine.”

“Indeed not, Lord Vulkan. However, I’m offering my services nonetheless. I share the Emperor’s suspicions about the root cause of this riot,” the man said, tapping the side of his helmet. Vulkan caught the hint and gestured towards the gunship that he had chosen to carry his own men into battle.

“Then you’re welcome to share them with me en route, Lord Draigo. Does your title reflect leadership of your Chapter?” he asked, walking up the ramp.

“I am the Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights, Chamber Militant of the Ordos Malleus, armored fist of the Inquisition,” Draigo said, surprising Vulkan greatly. “And as far as all but a handful of other chapters of the Astartes know, we do not exist. The Lamenters, the Raven Guard, the Salamanders, the Space Wolves, the Ultramarines, the White scars…most First and Second Founding chapters at least know of us, but our policy until…literally days ago was to mindwipe all Astartes who knew of us. Such was the vital secrecy of our mission.”

“If you’re Malleus, then your missions is to…what, banish Warpspawn that breach the veil between dimensions?” Vulkan asked with perfectly concealed distaste.

Draigo raised his voice slightly to be heard over the engines. “Precisely, though we sortie against other threats as well. Since the Emperor desired that the Custodes be deployed directly against the rioters, my own Chapter was called in to help defend the palace in their absence. We’re based off of the moon of Titan, so it was not a problem.”

“I see,” Vulkan said, dropping into a seat. The ramp lifted and the aircraft was off, turning slightly on the thrusters before accelerating off. The sensor package in Vulkan’s helmet came alive and displayed a myriad of contacts, linked directly into the gunship’s auspex. A group of five transports, being their own Thunderhawk Gunship, two Thunderhawk Transports, an Aquila, and a Navy dropship, were visible, above the battle-streaked ruins of the streets below. The sensors flickered with other contacts, mostly Arbites and PDF vehicles on the group, rounding up prisoners or cleaning up rubble.
The sensor package’s machine spirit popped up a new icon: an ETA timer. The timer was counting down from fifteen minutes.

Vulkan leaned back into his seat and took stock of the gunship’s other occupants. Besides himself and the Knight, there were five. He’Stan and Tu’Shan sat beside each other opposite the Primarch, and a Techmarine from Tu’Shan’s Honor Guard sat beside them. The other two wore the gold and red armor of the Companions, and were discussing something with exaggerated hand motions. Apparently, this was their first time in actual combat. Vulkan reflected that it was a sign of the changing times: in his days the Companions were selected from the Custodes with the MOST experience.

The door to the three-person cockpit was open, and a trio of Salamander serfs were flying the aircraft. Vulkan watched the city lights go flying by through the armorcrys window before turning back to Draigo. “So, Lord Draigo, what exactly are we facing here? Why did the Emperor not want to tell me back at the Palace?”

“I can’t speculate as to the Emperor’s state of mind in the Palace, Lord Vulkan, but I would say that our foes are probably more than mere rioters,” Draigo said. “We noticed that the most dangerous riots, the ones where people were really get butchered, were in the hives adjacent to the Navigatrix Quarter.”

“The Navigators?” Vulkan asked in surprise. “Why would they be rioting? Their continued survival is utterly dependent on the Imperium’s.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, Lord Vulkan. However, I suspect that the rioters themselves aren’t Navigators. Rather, the worst offenders looked to the Arbites like the wealthy residents of the hive spires immediately adjacent to the Navigator’s Quarter,” Draigo replied.

“Is the presence of the Warp-sorcery of the Navigators the reason for your own presence, Lord Draigo?” Vulkan asked. The timer on his helmet reached ten minutes.
“No, Lord Vulkan,” the Grey Knight said. “But we do suspect the presence of sorcerers amongst the rioters. The Sororitas that went in reported seeing truly unholy things going on amongst the rioters.” Before he could explain the statement, the Aquila-class shuttle leading the column of aircraft suddenly dove, releasing chaff. The rest of the aircraft dove to follow, and Vulkan gripped the metal piping next to his seat to keep his balance. Suddenly, one of the two Thunderhawk Transporter icons on his HUD shuddered and spun out of formation, clipping against a skybridge that send it spiraling into the glass side of a building. The serf pilots did their best, evading and juking their aircraft, but whatever had downed the transporter came after them. With a shriek of tearing metal, the gunship pitched onto its side, tossing He’Stan clean out of his seat to sprawl in the aisle. The co-pilot craned his head back over his shoulder and shouted.

“Get ready to bail, Lords, we’re not going to be able to land!” he yelled, his voice cracking under the strain.

“Bloody try!” one of the Companions yelled, struggling out of his seat and gripping the overhead storage rack. The pilot was trying, certainly, and the craft leveled off out of its dive, careening forward. A loud *spang* noise sounded from one side of the benighted gunship, and Vulkan set his teeth. The noise meant AA fire, bolters, probably stubbers too. The sound repeated itself, this time on the underside, and then it was like flying through a hailstorm. The sound of stubber slugs ricocheting off of the hull was constant, and the pilot growled aloud in frustration as the damaged port engine gave out entirely.

The man was on top of it, though, no doubt motivated by the presence of a Primarch in his cabin. He tilted the flaps of the ship’s atmospheric wings up to coast on the remaining engine, and pulled the switch to jettison the ancillary fuel and ammunition tanks from the underside of the gunship. The ship lurched upwards as the air tugged it level and its loss of weight tugged it up, and for one horrible moment it looked like the ship would crack in half under the stress. Vulkan clenched his hands around the metal bar, trying not to let his unease show. The gunner suddenly slapped a pair of red switches on his panel and squeezed the triggers on this sticks, and the cabin filled with the noise of the Thunder Cannon firing. The windows flared with the light of the Hellstrikes unleashing their payload onto some target below, and the polarized armorcrys windows turned black from the light of discharge.

The co-pilot turned back to the passengers. “This is as close as we can get, the air’s so full of shells you could walk to Mars! We’re dropping you behind the monorail annex, we just cleared it!” The pilot suited actions to words, lowering the sputtering craft down behind the crumbling building, but just as he hit the release for the aft ramp, the whole craft shook as a krak missile slammed into the other engine. The Thunderhawk gave out, dropping the last ten feet to bounce off the pavement.

Vulkan launched himself off of the ramp, slamming into the ground in his Terminator armor and spinning around to see He’Stan following him. Tu’Shan had been farther in the cabin, and stumbled out of the smoking wreck a moment later, clutching his and He’Stan’s bolters in both hands. Draigo was next out, with the unconscious gunner draped over his pauldrons. The Companions struggled out with the rest of the crew following, their arms full of the wargear and ammo boxes that had been stuffed into the storage rack. Vulkan turned back to the sight of the scorched monorail annex, its surfaces damaged by the Hellstrike. A small cluster of poorly-dressed skeletons with melted stubbers in their hands lay crumpled against a retaining wall. The red-cloaked Companions hefted their halberds and moved to either side of the small building that the Thunderhawk had crashed behind. The ship’s pilot stared at the crashed gunship and made the sign of the cogwheel, apparently in thanks for the thing lasting as long as it had. The co-pilot was a bit more pragmatic, dragging the unconscious gunner away from the burning wreck before the fuel tank exploded.

Draigo lifted his Nemesis pike and grabbed a satchel of frag grenades, slinging the strap under his belt and tightening it. Vulkan quickly stood and grabbed the shorter man’s shoulder. “Lord Draigo, this may be the last chance either of us get to discuss what the hell is over there. I know of no filthy aristocrat that can shoot down a gunship.” Draigo smirked humorlessly.

“Indeed. Nor a transporter.” The other three aircraft in the formation vanished in the distance, shooting clean over the wrecked monorail annex and turning around a massive hive spire that stretched into the sky like a man-made mountain.

The co-pilot finished carrying his wounded comrade and slapped a pressure bandage onto the gash on the gunner’s head. He’Stan dragged the armloads of equipment he and the Companions had salvaged over to where Vulkan was standing, wordlessly offering his Lord the meager bounty. Vulkan shook his head, then sighed and relented, grabbing a single-use flare gun and hanging it off the metal loop on the back of his mounted Storm Shield. Draigo continued, “The enemy we face is most likely corrupted, Lord Vulkan. Huge numbers of the world’s wealthy aristocrats were seen flying into these few hives before this madness began. My Chapter is composed entirely of psykers, Lord, and we can sense something deeply wrong here, as well. Still, I’m fairly sure it was krak missiles, not sorcery, that downed our aircraft.”

Vulkan snorted. “Really?” The crackling noise from the Thunderhawk was getting louder. The pilot finished his meditation and scampered over to where his co-pilot was tending to their gunner, and Tu’Shan hefted a multi-melta from the pile of weapons to join the rest of the group.

“Gentlemen, we have little choice, it seems, but to proceed. We can head towards wherever the AA fire came from, or we can proceed down the course we were following before.” Vulkan considered a moment.

“We deal with the AA. We can’t let any more Imperial forces fall into that trap,” Vulkan said decisively. The co-pilot looked up in shock.

“Sir, we’re barely ambulatory here. Kester will die if we try to move him.”

“Then call an Arbites medical unit in and stay here, serf,” Vulkan said, checking the charge on his Thunder Ballista and finding it full. “We must advance.”