++CoCIX: The Taking of Phaestus++

[Iron Father Ferrum]

For my return to the forum, and in honor of Call of Chaos IX, I decided to show my work in progress with a little literary extrapolation as well.  This is starting off as just text, but trust me: like winter, pictures are coming.  Let me know what you think of the tale and the painting!

 

 

 

 

I. Polyphemus System. The Phaestus.  Signals.  (989M39)

 

 

Star systems formed when clouds of gaseous elements begin to coalesce.  All matter has mass and thus all matter possesses a gravitational field; only when enough mass is gathered in one place does that gravity begin to exert sufficient power on other objects to affect their position, velocity, or course.  When enough dust and gas collect at the center of this pile of stellar detritus, its own inherent gravity adheres the matter together.  Enough matter in one spot, packed at a sufficient density, will eventually result in the birth of a star.  That star's own mass and velocity as it travels through space imparts upon it a spin.  The centrifugal force combined with the new star's gravity will yank the surrounding matter into motion, spinning it and flattening it into a disc shape.  Enough of that matter will collide and adhere as well, each of these separate clumps taking on a roughly spherical form as they evolve into planets.  The star itself feeds on hydrogen and helium until it achieves self-sustaining fusion, burning off its own corona and throwing the resulting exhaust back out into space as heavy metals.  These metals in turn get sucked into the closest planets, drawn in by those bodies' own gravity wells until they become rich with iron, uranium, germanium, tungsten, lead; all sorts of metals that have all sorts of industrial applications.  Because the planetoids, so rich with raw materials, are too new to have formed atmospheres -- atmospheres that are almost uniformly poisonous if not caustic in the beginning -- mining them for their strategic minerals is fairly easy.

 

The Polyphemus System was one such "new born" star system.  Its system primary was a beautiful bright Type G, so reminiscent of Terra's own bright light, having only entered its main sequence a few thousand years ago.  Seven planets whirled around Polyphemus, racing through the remnant nebula that filled its ecliptic plane, and all of them were ripe for the taking.  That didn't even take into consideration the hundreds of thousands of asteroids that were also cutting swathes through the debris field.

 

Shipmaster Kier Affron stood at the main occulus of the Mechanicus forge ship Phaestus and stared out into the void of the Polyphemus System's stellar space.  Swirling clouds, turned all shades of the spectrum by the refraction of Polyphemus' light, filled his vision.  Blood red clashed with bilious green interspersed with royal blue, all set against an eye-wateringly bright purple.  It was beautiful, but such considerations were tertiary to his purpose here.  The Phaestus was as old as the Imperium itself, and for ten thousand years it had been plying the void between the stars, visiting systems just like this one.  The ancient vessel's maw-like prow was open to the void, filled with las-cutters the size of hive cities and plasma furnaces that burned just as hot as Polyphemus' core.  Whole asteroids could be swallowed whole by the Phaestus, torn apart and melted down to their constituent atoms.  Those materials were then processed into ingots and shipped further into the ship's interior, where forges -- manned by Tech Priests, menials, and servitors -- worked them into a variety of weapons and more specialized equipment for the Emperor's armies.

 

Affron's ocular implants clicked as they zoomed in, studying the nebulae.  The various sensoria built into them visually dissected the dust cloud's contents, even at this range, picking out different component silica and categorizing them according to their usefulness in manufacturing ceramite, cordite, adamantium, and a dozen other vital materials.

 

His personal spectroscopy was interrupted by one of the bridge crew, a mid-level menial sworn to the service of Mars.  "Shipmaster, we're being hailed.  Imperial coding tags; decrypting now."

 

His quiet announcement rang out across the Phaestus' command center like a gunshot.  The hushed conversations between the rest of the crew cut off immediately, leaving only the occasional rustle of robes and the chatter of cogitators to fill the silence.  Polyphemus as a star system was completely empty -- was supposed to be, in any case -- so the presence of a radio signal was a cause for curiosity, if not alarm.

 

"Can you identify?" Affron blurted in binaric cant, his voice croaking out from an vox casters implanted where his larynx used to be, as he turned to face the bridge crew.  The crew were seated at rows of cogitators arranged like an amphitheater, lifting away into the darkened recesses of the upper levels, where were in turn populated mostly by eyeless, voiceless servitors hardwired to their stations.  Everywhere there was bare metal, zero expense given over to artistry or ergonomics.  To the augmetic eyes of the red-clothed priests, the otherwise static air was filled with streams of noospheric data.

 

The communications tech blurted back, "Diagnostics indicate an Astartes signal, sir."

 

"Shipmaster, signal source identified," the sensoria operator interjected.  "Auspex is showing a single standard-pattern Astartes Thunderhawk at about two AU from our current position.  It's powered down, life sign scans are inconclusives."

 

Affron's enhanced gaze went back to the com tech.  "Decryption?"

 

"Completed, shipmaster," came the reply.  "Message inloading as text now.  It's a recorded message, sir, playing on a loop.  Playback initiated."

 

A disembodied voice filled the cavernous command center.  Its timbre was low, but it carried weight, as if the very sound of it was reverberatory by default.  If one knew what to listen for -- and Kier Affron did -- it was obviously the voice of a Space Marine.

 

"-- istance.  We are in hibernation to preserve resources.  I say again, any Imperial vessels, this is Sergeant Ephraim Oran of the Emperor's Swords Chapter requesting assistance.  We are in hibernation to preserve resources."

 

"Helm."

 

The ship's pilot straightened at his post.  "Your orders, shipmaster?"

 

Affron turned back to look out into the empty void once again.  "Turn us towards that Thunderhawk.  Fire Control, prep the starboard tractor.  Pull it into the main hangar for investigation.  Oh, and inform the Arms Master to have a squadron of Praetorians posted there too.  No sense in taking chances."

[Soldier of Dorn]

Welcome back, mate. Looking forward to this!

[Iron Father Ferrum]

(So preparation for, evacuation from, and returning in the wake of a Category 4 hurricane was a new experience for me, and of course painting and writing fell by the wayside in lieu of the protection of life and limb.  Fortunately I'm back home in Florida, everyone is okay, and none of my stuff was damaged, so it's back to business as usual!  Let's get it on!)

 

 

II. The Dragon of Wawel Hill. The first head of the hydra. Dramatis Personae.

 

 

The ancient Terran tribe that made their home along the banks of the Vistula River in Eastern Europa, like so many such tribes, had a legend about when their homes were menaced by a great beast.  Most such stories ended with great heroes slaying the creature that burned their crops and devoured their children, and the tale of the Dragon of Wawel Hill was no exception.  Unlike most such tales, however, it did not fall to a gallant warrior to defeat the beast; all such men who tried failed, murdered in turn by the leviathan.  Instead, it was intelligence and trickery that saw an end to the Wawel Dragon.  An enterprising shoemaker's apprentice -- enticed by the King of Kracow's offer of his daughter's hand in marriage to the man who killed the dragon -- stuffed a sheep with sulphur and the hottest spices he could find, then left it by the entrance to the dragon's cave.  The beast found the offering of course, and gobbled it up greedily.  But the sulphur and spices upset its stomach and began to burn it from within, so the beast flew to the river and began to drink, hoping to quench the fire in its belly.  So great was its pain and so great its thirst that the dragon drank half the Vistula until finally, its stomach over-filled, its insides burst and the beast fell dead.

 

The shoemaker's apprentice married the princess and became king, and centuries later a great statue was raised before the entrance to the dragon's cave: a giant steel beast, breathing fire, frightening local children with the fierce countenance of its seven heads.

 

The creature of legend had many names.  Most often, it was simply called Smok Wawelski, the Dragon of Wawel.  Others named it Calozerca.  This latter name was also plastered across the armored prow of an Acheron-class heavy cruiser that floated serenely behind Polyphemus III, its long-range passive sensors probing the airless dark for the arrival of its prey.  The Calozerca flew the flag of the Alpha Legion.  It wasn't the largest ship in the service of this particular Legion warband, but it was one of the most lethal.  Long range lance turrets lined its flanks and its spine, promising a swift death to any ship in existence.

 

Inside the Calozerca's main strategium, demi-gods were gathering.  The commander of Force Omicron was known as Occam Pytheon.  Imperial records -- if they hadn't been deleted or lost to data-corruption by now -- showed that such a Space Marine had once led Omicron Company of the XX Legion Astartes during the Great Crusade.  Imperial historians would have discounted the possibility that the two post-humans were the same man, but they would have been wrong; such was the power of the Warp and its denizens.  To the dark lords of creation, time was just another toy.

 

Occam watched as his officers and their squads filed into the strategium.  Contrary to expectation, the room was clean and well-lit, lacking much of the corrupted splendor so often attributed to devotees of the Eightfold Path.  This was a deliberate decision.  Force Omicron had taken for their patron a warp thought-form of middling power that called itself Ophion; it in turn only bestowed its "blessings" upon those who invited the mutating effects.  Occam had long learned the power of infiltrating his Space Marines into Imperial organizations, and that was difficult to do if every one of them was flesh-bonded to warplate covered in spikes and leering skulls.  The armor he wore now was an example of such.  It had begun its existence as Mk.IV plate straight from the Martian forges, but much had changed during the Long War.  The baleen-snouted helmet was now surmounted by the snarl of an angry dragon, the depiction a blend of artificer's touch and Ophion's favor.  Horn-like spikes grew from the exhaust vents on his powerpack, from his pauldrons and greaves.  One arm was encased from the elbow down in a massive clawed gauntlet which his men had jokingly named "Occam's Razor;" he had laughed when he first heard the name and soon had taken the name for the weapon as well.  A green reptilian creature, winged and horned, perched daintily on his shoulder.  Its prehensile tail was wrapped securely around the vent-arm of his backpack, and its slitted red eyes kept just as careful a watch on the marching Legionnaires as Occam did himself.

 

Already in the room with him was the Serpent Guard.  Not all of them, of course; Tactical Dreadnought Armor was a rare thing, so the Guard were often parceled out to support multiple operations.  He only had three of them with him, at the moment.  Sergeant Orion stood next to Occam, the trophy racks atop his heavy plate accentuating the armor's added height.  The helmet of a Blood Angel hung from one of those racks sending a pointed message that he was not to be trifled with, though with the heavy chainfist dangling at his side, such a message was mostly unnecessary.

 

http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h96/DTRI/Alpha%20Legion/20161003_152103_zpskgiyj6tp.jpg

 

The first squad through the door was actually the new arrivals from Gallowglass Assault Squad.  The destruction of the Emperor's Swords was complete, and many of the hynpo-tainted Space Marines who had turned on their battle brothers and brought about the fall of Ghorstangrad from within had joined with the various Alpha Legion cells that performed the operation.  Gallowglass compromised most of Omicron's such recruits.  Their armor was still unmarked, not yet corrupted by the warp's insidious touch, though many of them had swapped their Imperial-issued chainblades for more. . . esoteric blades.  Sergeant Oran in particular had a long-bladed falchion strapped to his back.  At least they had repainted their armor to match the blue and green heraldry that Ocam's men used.  Even Olivar with his stubborn refusal to paint over some of the white markings on his warplate carried a curving dagger longer than his forearm.

 

http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h96/DTRI/Alpha%20Legion/20160916_141803_zpsixs5avrq.jpg

 

Jaeger Rifle Squad marched into the briefing on Gallowglass' heels.  Occam rarely got on well with Sergeant Orinco, who was lovingly cradling his newly-acquired Imperial-pattern combi-plasma in both arms.  Orinco's sneering countenance and personal arrogance made him miss Otheum and Venator Squad, but he'd sent them with Ozzymandias on a more pressing matter.  The problem was that Orinco and his men wanted to push Force Omicron into officially joining the Despoiler.  Occam had no problem fighting in Black Crusades -- in fact, he often planned operations around such campaigns because of the massive disruptions in Imperial procedures they caused -- but Force Omicron was his.  He wasn't about to offer it up to Abaddon to dismember and abuse.  As a sign of their devotion, the Jaegers all wore topknots on their helmets, just like their Black Legion idol wore.  It was juvenile in Occam's eyes to worship another mortal so, but so long as Orinco and the Jaegers were useful, he tolerated them.

 

http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h96/DTRI/Alpha%20Legion/20160916_135144_zpsjbbiwed0.jpg

 

The group was idle for a few moments as the two squads of new arrivals found their seats in the amphitheater-like strategium.  Each clustered together, clearly distrustful of the others, and where Occam once would have listened to good-natured barbs pass betweem them with amusement, all that filled the air now was muttered threats.  The Eightfold Path was necessary for their mission, but it had done much to unravel the bonds of brotherhood in the Legion.

 

He was pulled from these dark thoughts as Squad Cannoneer marched in, much to his surprise.  The havoks of Cannoneer were heavily augmetic, some having replaced their legs or arms or both with bionics.  This increased the already-impressive lifting capacity of a Space Marine so that they could carry around extra arms and ammunition, and even here they carried their heavy weapons with them: a pair of lascannons and a pair of missile launchers, loaded and ready to fire even among friends.  Well, allies might have been the better term, but the point was that for all their toughness, Cannoneer's members were slow.  Which meant that Ophor wanted to be last, to broadcast his arrogance and make a point.  Occam mused on this as the havoks passed him, and the commander traded a slow nod of respect with Sergeant Oman as he clanked by.

 

http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h96/DTRI/Alpha%20Legion/20161003_152124_zpsp8o5kwwi.jpg

 

Finally, after a few more minutes of waiting that was no doubt intentional, Ophor deigned to appear.  Most of Omicron's officers were old friends of Occam's from their Legion days: he and Ozzymandias had come up as aspirants together, Otheum has been a fast friend in his first squad assignment, even the now-contentious Orinco had once been a trusted squadmate.  But not Ophor.  Ophor was different.  Ozzy had found him on some wasted dustball in the Eye, raiding and pillaging and murdering dhis way through anything that crossed his path.  He'd obviously been touched by the gods -- the leathery wings that spread from his back gave easy proof to that -- and Occam had seen first hand the lethal power of the curious-looking sword that hung from his waist.  He wasn't XX Legion, though where he'd come from remained a secret that gnawed at Occam almost daily.  He didn't like not knowing everything.  Ever since his arrival, Ophor had been a threat to Occam.  It was as if he was actively trying to split Force Omicron by wooing other squads to his side.  So far, he'd had few takers.  So far, Occam hadn't killed him because he was still very useful.  Especially with that murder sword.

 

And of course, where Ophor went, Sergent Orin and Scylla Raptor Squad went too.  The Scyllas had been XX Legion, tempted away from Voldorius' service nearly five centuries ago.  Their conversion to Chaos worship was more pronounced than most, and the mutated forms of their armor announced their allegiance loud and clear.  Two of the raptors carried melters while the rest fingered the bolt pistols holstered on their thighs.  Orin had the heavy-bladed cleaver he called a sword unsheathed and in hand as the squad flitted into the room behind Ophor.  It was a challenge of course, Orin posturing in support of Ophor's unsubtle politicking.  Occam just ignored it.  Orin was no threat to him.  Ophor, sure. . . but he'd bested Orin in single combat in the past.  The raptor sergeant knew better than to try anything.

 

http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h96/DTRI/Alpha%20Legion/20160916_1351211_zpsvekrnpk6.jpg

 

The raptors didn't take their seats of course, but just paced back and forth along the gallery.  Still, it would do.  Occam rubbed his gauntleted hands together and said, "Finally, we can get started.  Here's the situation..."