Chapter Twenty-Eight: Death in Calixis (Part VIII)

Location: Tyrannos Umbra. Night Lord Battle Cruiser.

Date: 893.M30 (Shortly after the raid on the War-Moon began)

Claxons pulled Brother-Sergeant Lubor Leontiv from his pre-battle meditation as they went through the Battle Cruiser's halls. Something had struck the Tyrannos Umbra. Swiftly clipping his helmet into place, Leontiv scanned the runes lighting up on his tactical display. One of the Rangda rad-blacked torpedoes had made it past the point defense and slammed into the ship's starboard side. Battle damage and possibly active enemy munitions fell under the purview of the Mechanicum and mortal crew, not something an Astartes outside the command crew should be informed about. New data streamed through Leontiv's helmet and he understood why his squad was being summoned. These were not torpedoes, they were boarding pods. The enemy was attempting to board the Tyrannos Umbra

Sergeant Leontiv turned to the squad and growled through the private vox. "Voidsmen patrols are moving to hardpoints around the potential breach" Their armor's virtual map pinged half a dozen locations in a semi-sphere around the boarding pods impact.

"These will be our fall back points and where the line must be held. Squads Averin, Gusev, and Ernet will be joining us. But we are primary defenders and they will be positioned to respond to other potential breaches or cover our slack if we all die" continued the Sergeant, with the typical morose humor of his Legion.

"Command has little go on in tactical data. Let the enemy show their hand before we cut it off. These are Rangda, probably bastard cousins of those walking worm Slaugth, so expect similar foulness and difficulty killing them. Exterminate with extreme prejudice and tag the corpses for burning. Brothers, let's go find out if these xenos breeds can scream!"

Squad Leontiv armed themselves and moved out, exchanging favored weapons for more specialized tools of destruction. Volkite and Flame weapons at range, axes, claws and mauls for melee. Weapons better suited for close quarter combat and not damaging the Void Ship around them. Equipped for battle and finished with final preparations the Astartes moved out. Slipping through the Battle Cruisers bowels with remarkable ease. This is where the Night Lords excelled. They relished skulking in claustrophobic shadows, a predator army unburdened by mercy or honor.

The labyrinthian expanses of an Imperial void ship, especially a warship could be confusing for even an experienced crew. Literally thousands of kilometers of corridor and access ducts snaking through the vessels innards. Squad Leontiv moved through the maze with ease, making excellent time to their destination. Internal sensors fed the enemies location to the Tyrannos Umbra's cogitators, which in turn transmitted the data to the Night Lords, giving them a reasonable estimate of the Rangda boarders' movements. Extreme radiation levels quickly burned out all but the hardiest sensors, resulting in an expanding dead-zone on the Cogitators map. They could know the extent of the enemy's infestation, but not their precise movements. Squad Leontiv moved to intercept one enemy thrust moving towards a Voidsmen hardpoint. The Rangda boarding pod was large enough to be mistaken for a large ordinance shell. There was no telling how many Xenos had gotten on board, but the sensor outages indicated a single large mass moving toward the nearest Imperial defenders. Anomalous sensor pings hinted at other possible scouts and infiltrators moving elsewhere. Voidsmen could hopefully head off this threat before it became too serious. While the Night Lords dealt with the main threat.

Soon the Rangda force would move through an almost empty cargo hold. Clever use of automated bulkheads and the ship's crew had given the Xenos a path of least resistance. Dark, filled with metal crates and plenty of industrial detritus. The Cargo hold would be the Night Lords hunting ground. Squad Leontiv had already taken up positions and prepared a number of surprises for the enemy. They did not have to wait long. The red mass on their helm display would soon reach the main entrance of the Cargo hold. Aside from the low bass hum of the ship, the hold was silent. Silence first broken by the rapidly increasing clicks of armor-held rad-counters. Thousands of years had made the tell-tale crackle of the Giger Counter a universal sign of danger.

Next came the wails. Leontiv at first thought it was displaced air or vent problems caused by the invaders. A low but rising note of anguish echoed down the ship's halls and into the cargo hold. Unified by some unseen torment were a multitude of voices, singing in a choir of pain was the unmistakable keening of human agony, accompanied by other stranger warbles of misery. The screams grew in volume to a near deafening height, the hell-song keeping tempo with the steady click of detected radiation.

Then at long last the enemy came. A tide of bodies poured out of the large transport bulkhead. The ten meter entrance was filled with a teeming mass of limbs. Brother Lubor assumed it was a flesh-crafted horror. A splicing together of meat into one singular tool of destruction. As the river of skin and bone emptied into the cargo hold its nature became apparent. A stampede of withered broken forms driven forward by their sheer weight of numbers. Lubor focused his sight on the mass and soaked in the details. Humans, abhumans and at least half a dozen unknown Xeno species made up the mob. Each naked and covered with radiation burns. The unmistakable stink of dying tissue and iron pouring off them. Rubbery and near translucent skin marked by festering wounds did little to hide strange slithering shapes writhing within. Each of these slaves held an eldritch weapon in hand and were bound by a neural-collar sunken into their flesh.

Neural-Collar, another example of the Imperium giving an accurate but underwhelming name for a Rangda atrocity. Biomechanical flesh plastic protruded from the slave soldiers spine, neck, and skull. Forming a vaguely insectoid construct burrowed into skin and bone. Later dissections and observations would reveal the truth of the Neural-Collars. These were the Rangda slave-soldiers, the lowest of the Xenos castes, more kin to the Khrave then true Rangda. The tortured body the Neural-Collars were bolted onto were nothing but armor and tools. Kept "alive" and moving by worming tendrils. The bodies belonged in a hospice ward in the wake of a reactor collapse, instead they served alien parasites. Doomed to slowly fall apart from the signature radiation of Rangda weaponry.

Sergeant Leontiv estimated at least a thousand slave-soldiers were in the Cargo hold and connected passage. They must have been crammed together in the Boarding Torpedo like vac-sealed ration packs. The data pouring in from his sensor suite informed him that about half of the slave-soldiers had entered the Cargo hold. Perfect opportunity for the first surprise. With a thought the remote detonators on a series of thermal explosives activated. Fire is paradoxically useful and useless in this type of combat. Limited oxygen and vented compartments could easily neuter the flames spread. While the cramped quarters and air-tight structures could turn entire chambers into smoke and flame filled death traps.

The initial blast of the thermal bombs produced a flash of white hot fire. Instantly incinerating the closest slave-soldiers. Luckier slave's shields held from the blast, the fiery backwash only burning them horribly. The Neural Collars came equipped with a flimsy energy shield of some sort. Probably enough to absorb one or two las-shots. Leontiv wondered how they would handle the secondary explosions. "Repurposed" fuel canisters had been tucked away in the hallway, the closest a few inches from the thermal bomb. Liquid fire erupted out, spreading in great pools of burning promethium. Leontiv took an appreciative inhale, the smell of surprise, fear and burning flesh go lovely together.

Smoke filled the Cargo hold, the burning flames casting eerie shadows around the large chamber. The slave-soldiers farthest from the blast recovered quickly. Moving into a loose semi-circle formation and scanning the shifting darkness. All while never stopping a steady babble of screams, cries and panicked murmuring. Psychological warfare is an ever popular weapon across this accursed galaxy. The Master of Mankind had given his Legions an order and a promise. 'And they shall know no fear.' Exactly for this reason.

Leontiv spoke quietly over the squad vox. The Rangda slave-soldiers were searching for them, he did not know what senses they possessed and was loathe to give away the element of surprise. "They have been weighed, watched, and found wanting. Kill them all my Brothers!"

Streams of fire, Volkite rays and a few incendiary bolt-rounds poured from the cargo holds ceiling. Other legions mocked the Night Lords for this stereotypical tactic. "Of course the Bats of Cruze hang upside down in the dark looking for victims" they would say. No matter, it got results and the sheer terror it could provoke was lovely. Dozens of slave-soldiers died in the first volley. Every Volkite or Bolt killing instantly, the Flamers requiring time to overtax shields. Even thinned by the explosion the alien assault force was massive. Reacting quickly, nearly two hundred barrels of alien guns swung up towards the ceiling and opened fire. Jets of monochromatic energy lanced into the shadows. Shrunken down portable shadow blasters.

The weight of fire was immense and scores of shadow blasters fired on every suspected Astartes position. Most of the shots went wide, either from inaccuracy or Night Lord agility. The few that hit were dissipated by personal shields. Only Battle-Brother Cletatian was unlucky enough to catch a full volley of shadow blaster fire. The Astartes had been midleap, bounding between metallic rafters. Quick thinking and maneuvering thruster work saved his life. The monochromatic blasts quickly broke through Cletatian's shields and a few more struck his left leg.

Instantly the armor's paint burnt off and it's mechanisms melted. The transhuman flesh inside burned into a shriveled radioactive husk. Cletatian spun in the air to avoid subsequent fire and missed his intended landing. With the crunch of ceramite on metal the Astartes slammed into the deck below. Recovering quickly, but with a useless leg, he pivoted to face the onrushing horde. Volkite in one hand, chain axe in the other, Cletatian met the enemy. Crippeled by his ruined leg, he still punched through the slave-soldiers with dismissive ease. Weaving between them, forcing the slaves to hold their fire or at least hit each other. To little surprise they still shot eldritch energy bolts at him. Every dodged blast reducing a random slave-soldier to a burned husk or rad-blackened shadow on the hull. The rest of Squad Leontiv reacted quickly. Two other Battle-Brothers moved to help Cleatian in the melee while the rest poured fire into the slave soldier swarm.

Cleatian's destroyed leg caught up with him, the dead weight forcing him to stumble. An opportunity exploited by the nearest slave soldiers. Who sprung at him with spears made of fluited bone. One spear managed to slip between plates of ceramite and thrust into the Astartes flesh. Transhuman organs already pushed to the limit found another challenge. Viral loads pumped into Cleatian's flesh, accompanied by dozens of different immune-system inhibiting toxins. The injured Astartes revitalizer kicked in. Stimulants and rejuv chemicals flooding his body. It would do little to halt the Rangda infection, but maybe keep him fighting longer. The augmented biology of the Astartes protects them from true Rangda subversion. Flesh might wither or become foul with rot, but would not be possessed by the insidious Xeno's viral nature. An Astartes very tissue would let itself rot into septic muck before becoming enslaved to the Rangda.

Grinding his teeth in pain, pain that burned hot even with the stimulants coursing through him. Cleatian pushed forward, the bloodlust of his geneseed pushing him forward. Hacking through the crowd of slave-soldiers. Volkite spewing deflagrating rays, turning any slave unlucky enough to be hit into a charred skeleton. Wounded and surrounded, Cleatian did not even see his death approach. Something huge pushed through the Cargo hold's entrance. Ignoring the still burning promethium and charging Cleatian with speed similar to an Astartes own. Cleatian barely started to turn when a duo of spears struck him right through his chest. Long lances of bone, plastic and metal punctured his hearts and lungs. A follow up point-blank blast took the dying Astartes' head off.

Standing among the Slave-Soldiers, its lance-like melee weapons retracting from Cleatian's corpse was a Rangda Warrior. Standing at least a head taller than an Astartes, its body brought to mind images of microscopic bacteriophages, and mounted warriors of Old Earth. Three lower limbs formed a stout tripod base, each ending in armored claws. The main body was heavily armored and vaguely humanoid. Four manipulator limbs stuck out from the torso's shoulders. One pair holding shadow blasters. The other holding the duo of lance weapons that combined the practical lethality of a spear and the insidious flexibility of the ovipositor. Nestled between the armored shoulders was a flattened head covered in diverse sensory organs surrounding a lamprey mouth. Formed from the strange milky white biomechanical material of most Rangda constructs. It's flesh wriggled and twitched, the air around it humming with the tell-tale discharge of an energy shield.

With Cleatian dead, the Rangda Warrior and its accompanying slave-soldiers moved to meet the two Astartes who had hoped to rescue their Battle-Brother. Loping forward on the alien tripod limbs the Rangda clashed blades with the Space Marines. The Lances quickly proving themselves more akin to sharp tentacles than actual lances. Crowds of slave-soldiers surged around the Astartes, uncaring as their stolen flesh was crushed under heavy ceramite boots. Each attempt to land a blow with a shadow blaster or bone spear was a trivial threat even in the hundreds. One that did serve its purpose, slowing and distracting the Astartes. Every time one of the two Battle-Brothers got close to the Rangda Warrior the air around them started to glow with ionizing radiation. The Xeno's shields irradiating and burning anything that got too close.

Battle-Brother Andrival pushed through the energy field. Ignoring the paint on his armor flaking off and the faint itch on his skin. He managed to land a solid blow with his power-axe. The blade cleaved through flesh-plastic and the Rangda Warrior let out an eerie wail of pain. Already close, Andrival levelled his bolter and emptied his clip into the Rangda. Blowing holes open in the Xeno, showering the Astartes in stinking oily blood. The wails grew louder and Andrival did not have time to react when one of the lance-tentacles snaked around his power-axe wielding hand. The blade refusing to come free and costing him valuable micro-seconds. Wrapped around his arm, its shifting surface squeezed and cut .

Roaring in fury Andrival kicked out with all the leverage he could muster. Snapping one of the Rangda's legs. The Xeno toppled forward onto him and his Brother opened fire on its exposed back. In a final act of spite the Rangda ripped off Andrival's ensnared arm as it died. Pain and hatred colored the Astartes voice as he screamed. Shoving the twitching corpse off of him in time for a handful of slave-soldiers to descend upon him. Ramming their spears into his body over and over. The last sight the Astartes saw, between the flailing strikes of the slaves was the shadows of more Rangda Warriors emerging from the entrance.

Watching two of his squad die quickly, far too quickly for an Astartes. Sergeant Leontiv made the call. "Fall back. On my mark detonate tertiary explosives. We will regroup at the nearest hard poi-"

His words were cut off as the Tyrannos Umbra shook with impact. Runes on the Sergeant's display informed him three more boarding pods had hit the ship. The Rangda Kindred had come in force to kill them all.

It left a bad taste in Leontiv's mouth but their two fallen brothers must be left behind. At least seven more Rangda Warriors were moving into the cargo hold. Watching the slave-soldiers swarm the dead Astartes and rip them to pieces, he knew geneseed extraction would be impossible. Better to fall back and regroup with the Voidsmen. Hopefully the additional firepower would turn the battle back in their favor.

Under the Sergeant's orders the Squad fled the Cargo Bay, arming the proximity explosives peppering the room and leaving the Rangda with a few parting shots. The Night Lords were fast, incredibly fast. Slipping through the ship's innards with an agility unnatural to such hulking figures. A series of brief Vox messages informed the nearest hardpoint they were coming and what was trailing after the Astartes. Steady booms and cracks echoed down the long transport shaft the Night Lords charged through. The Rangda were seemingly hitting every trap they had left behind. Leontiv doubted it would do much more than thin the slave soldiers' numbers and maybe slow them down.

Soon the garrisoned hardpoint became visible. A bunker built into a major intersection of two large hallways. It had built in shields, a quartet of Multi-laser turrets, ammo, med and ration stock. All wrapped in a sturdy metal frame. Vox-pings between the bunker garrison and Astartes crackled. Position noted and status confirmed. Leontiv did not want any itchy fingered gunner opening up on him or his brothers when they entered the hardpoint. Dispensing with stealth the Night Lords had thundered down the transport shaft and burst into the hardpoint.

All four turrets swiveled to face them but thankfully the gunners kept their wits. The Night Lords scrambled up the intersection's walls. Taking positions in the corners, using the series of gantries and rafters as their own bunker. Sensor runes lit up on Leontiv's display. The electromagnetic trip wires had been placed every ten meters down the hallway. Hopefully the additional rad-shielding and subtle nature of the devices would protect them from the Rangda. Leontiv watched as a cascade of runes alerted him to the encroaching threat. Waiting till a specific secondary alert reached him. One tripwire had identified an anomalously large and fast object. A Rangda warrior no doubt.

The real threat was in range, and if the sensor readings were accurate, in perfect position. Leotiv would turn the slave-soldier horde from an asset to a hazard. The lead Rangda was caught between the waves of slave-soldiers. Probably using the possessed flesh as living armor, expecting more bolt rounds or volkite fire. This would be a fun surprise then. On the Sergeant's orders all four Multi-lasers opened fire down the transport shaft. It was blind fire, relying on the sensor data the Astartes provided. Accuracy becomes less important with a chokepoint and overwhelming firepower.

Slave-soldiers were cut down in droves. Torn apart by directed energy capable of punching through their shields and their flesh through sheer weight of fire. The Multi-lasers poured red bolts of energy down the shaft. Three always firing while the fourth cooled. After ten seconds of sustained fire the Multi-lasers stopped. On cue, a pair of shoulder-mounted missiles flew out of the Bunker. Screaming down the transport shaft and detonating with the sound of dull thunder. A sound that didn't even have time to end before the Multi-lasers started up again. Linked directly into the ship's power grid, the rapid-fire las weapons could keep up a sustained bombardment for a long time. Unfortunately, the sensors relaying back to the defenders perished in the attack. A trio of Cyber Altered Tasks, disposable mechanical drones favored by Mars, soon found themselves scuttling down the transport shaft. The near-constant stream of red las bolts overhead were unregistered by their simple circuitry.

The C.A.T. 's soon found piles of corpses, burnt, torn asunder and broken open. The Multi-lasers and Missiles had reaped a grim toll on the Rangda attackers. It was difficult to tell from the servitors' shoddy sensors but it seemed at least two hundred of the slave-soldiers were smeared around the hallway and one, maybe two Rangda Warriors as well. Worryingly there was no sign of the enemy assault force, aside from the corpses that is. The Rangda had retreated back, realizing the transport shaft was a death trap. Most likely regrouping, possibly with the newly arrived transport pods.

Not unexpected but not ideal either. Now the question was should they hold the Hardpoint or sally out and face the enemy. The other Astartes Squads assigned to this section of the ship were moving in and would arrive soon. They would need information if they wanted to push back and destroy the Rangda attackers. Better have Squad Leontiv, which already had an idea of what to expect skulking in the dark looking for monsters. A plan of action quickly formed in Leontiv's mind. One he never got to use, as the gravity turned off.

Gravity compensation shut down and the effects were instantaneous. The Tyrannos Umbra was moving at full Plasma burn, without the ships compensators the full force of that movement punched into Leontiv and every other soul in this section of ship. The impact was immediate, Astartes smashed against metal walls with a resounding clash. An unlucky Voidsmen fell to his death sideways, screaming the entire descent down one of the transport shafts. Others were crushed under suddenly moving cargo or debris. As quickly as it left, artificial gravity returned, except it was five times Terran standards and tilted at a thirty degree angle.

This should not be possible, artificial gravity was a tried and true standard of Imperial void ships. Causing a mass failure on this level required access to the ship's most important internal workings. Something had made its way deep into the Battle Cruisers innards and gained control of important cogitators. Terrible insight flickered through Leontiv. His unconscious mind putting together the pieces or his genesires gift at work. The earlier unknown signals, Xeno infiltrators worming into the ship. Was the attack force nothing more than a distraction? No, the Rangda attacked with two weapons, a ready spear and a subtle poison. Both are equally capable of killing.

If the Rangda had already taken control of the ship's artificial gravity, there was no stopping them. A rune ignited on Leontiv's display, pulling his attention to the C.A.T. 's sensors. They had detected Rangda were returning. He got a few moments of video feed as the servitor was trampled under foot. The enemy intended to continue its suicidal attack, except they now had an opening. Sergeant Leontiv was not even surprised when the lumens and power feeds within the hardpoint went dark. The Multi-laser would only have so much battery charge and use of the ships systems would not be possible.

The long high-pitched scream of Rangda slave-soldiers started to echo down the transport shaft. It was louder and clearer than before. Xeno reinforcements had arrived. Twisted gravity limited the Voidsmen's effectiveness, and the Astartes as well to a lesser extent. They could fall back, but where to? The enemy was coming and warbling com disruption echoed across the vox. Time to make a stand, hold here or die trying. A sneer crossed Leontiv's face as he made his decision. This was not how Night Lords fought, but so be it. No plan survives first contact with the enemy, and that was especially true when the Rangda were concerned.

Prowling towards the hardpoints entrance, he motioned for his squad to join him. When the Multi-laser ran out they would use the choke point to make a stand. It had been a long time since Squad Leontiv made barricades out of their dead enemies. Forcing the foe to clamber over corpses, just to die like the rest. Not a bad place to die, surrounded by piles of Xeno scum. Would be better to survive of course, but you can't have everything. Hell, it might be worth dying just to make the Rangda bastards afraid of a broken squad of murderers. As the slave-soldiers screaming grew louder and louder Leontiv let out a final cruel laugh. If he were to die here, he would let out a scream of his own. The Night Lords lived for stealth, for striking from the shadows and vanishing without a trace. He thought that just this once, it would be appropriate to let out a cry from his transhuman lungs that would drown out all the others.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"