Chapter 13

Apothecary Zo’stan

The seasoned marine shifted his focus to his Narthecium, a vital tool that held greater significance
to him than a bolter did to any other brother or a lasgun to a common Guardsman. It was through
this tool that the future of their chapter, the Salamanders, and Vulkan's genetic legacy were
preserved. The Narthecium had undergone numerous modifications, as was customary for
equipment used by the Salamanders. Notably, it now housed additional stasis tubes, allowing for
the recovery and preservation of more gene-seed amidst the heat of battle. This modification
served as a bitter reminder of the lessons learned during the Badab War.

It was precisely this brutal conflict that brought them to their current situation, descending into
the atmosphere of a world besieged by a treacherous governor. They fought alongside other
forces, including their cousin chapters, the Crimson Fists, and the Black Templars.

During the Badab War, the Second Company had repeatedly proven their worth on the battlefield
against the Renegades. However, each victory came at a heavy cost, as only a conflict between
Astartes could demand. Subsequently, they were deployed to Armageddon, further depleting their
ranks. The significant losses necessitated the replenishment of the Second Company's numbers.

To ensure the Company remained combat-effective and worthy of the Chapter, Captain No’vas
Er’van decided to request replacement troops from the reserve companies. The Chapter Master
granted his request on the condition that a "training campaign" would be carried out. This would
allow the new initiates to be properly integrated into the company's structure by fighting alongside
experienced veterans from the Badab War and other battlefields. The fires of war would forge them
together, like a forge mends broken steel.

Right now, Zo’stan was in what must have been a former rebel prison camp.

The rebels were becoming more and more unredeemable in the Apocathery’s eyes. This detention
facility was filled with starving pro-imperial citizens, it seemed. The Planetary Governor must have
made his move when he must have received word that an unexpected Imperial Battlefleet had
somehow accidentally Warp-jumped to the system and had launched a compliance crusade.

Outside, the salamanders were overseeing the arrival of the Mechanicus. The area around the
prison camp was now being turned into a Basilica, a headquarters, a foothold, an administration
building, a church, and a fortress. Servitors toiled away, overseen by Mechanicum adepts and soon
gaining an audience of terrified but curious children.

Presently, Zo’stan noticed Ta’lvi, the company’s techmarine stomping toward him, servo arms on
his back moving on their own accord. Finishing his work on the patient, he stowed his Narthecium
safely, before he stood up to greet the visitor.”

“Techmarine.”

“Apocathery.” The techmarine respectfully addressed. “I have been looking over the translation
matrices on some of our battle brother’s helmets, seeing as they seemed unable to translate the
local tongue here. I’ve just finished and was on my way to the Captain when I saw you.”

“Oh.” Zo’stan rumbled thoughtfully, “What do you make of it? Were our helmets damaged on the
descent from the void?” Ta’lvi shook his head.

“Unfortunately, Brother Apocathery, that does not seem to be the case. I was analyzing some of
the local inhabitants’ tongue and realized that it’s not a derivative of Low-Gothic. The language
seems to predate the Imperium, the Age of Strife, and even the Dark Age of technology.”
Zo'stan frowned in contemplation. A pre-imperial language was a rare find indeed.

"Most curious. I wonder how such an isolated culture endured undisturbed for so long without
falling to calamity or xenos corruption. Their world remains in the light of the Emperor's grace, it
seems."

His eyes fell upon a group of awestruck children peering at the hulking form of the Chapter
Dreadnought being offloaded nearby. Though fearful, no sign of taint or heresy stained their souls.

"Perhaps we can learn from their resilience. When compliance is achieved, the Chapter could
establish an outpost to better study their ways. Much could be gained from a people who withstood
the trials of ten thousand years."

Ta'lvi nodded pensively. "A wise notion, brother. Their peaceful endurance serves as an example
even for Astartes. I shall speak to the Librarians; their linguistic insights could unlock a deeper
understanding of this culture's secrets."

"What do you think the captain will think of this, brother techmarine? Sure, they may predate the
Imperium, but the technology here is most ingenious" In a whisper, so that a few passing tech-
adepts would not hear, he added: "One can say, that some of the examples, not all, but some are
even superior to whatever we have made."

Before the techmarine could answer, there was a commotion from behind them, Both Astartes
turned and watched a Sister-Hospitaller exit the tent serving as a makeshift hospital and walk up
to them, swiftly bowing once she reached them.

"Apocathery, some guardsmen found more prisoners in critical condition. I apologize for the
disturbance, but your presence is required."

Zo'stan nodded sharply, exchanging a brief nod with Ta’lvi, who told the other Astartes they would
continue this discussion some other time. before parting ways, each to see to vital duties amidst
this unfolding mystery.

Within the hospital tent, scenes of grim work unfolded. The Apothecary moved among cots of
wasted forms, wounded not only by violence but prolonged privation. Many would not survive the
night, souls claimed by slow cruelties rather than a clean death in battle.

Yet where there was life, there was hope. Zo'stan's Narthecium sang in his hands, bioengineering
miracles beyond any other healer's art. Joints were mended, organs regrew, blood purified, and
tissues rebuilt parcel by parcel.

Some patients responded to his ministrations at once, color returning to gray skin. Others teetered
on the brink, clutching desperately at life as flesh knit around brittle bones once more.

By dawn, only a few remained beyond saving. The Astartes worked until the last, granting what
mercy could be found in a dignified end over a lingering demise.

Emerging at last, Zo'stan's armor was spattered in gore, but his soul was lightened. Purpose had
been served in staving off the Reaper's grasp, though more work yet remained.

He spotted the techmarine conferring with a senior adept, holograms gesturing to strange
machines. Ta’lvi nodded his thanks to the Explorator before crossing to the Apothecary.

"Your findings, brother?" rumbled Zo'stan, always focused on piecing together the greater whole.
Ta’lvi's reply would shape their next move in this unlikely rebellion's fallout.

Lt Ryan Parker’s Battlegroup.

Francovia.
The Abrams trundled down the road, followed by three other Abrams tanks. The village was just up
ahead. The commander poked his head out of his cupola, a risky maneuver as there was no doubt
there were snipers posted. The commander stared out for just a minute before a laser whizzed
past sizzling. The man yelped going back in and closing the hatch.

“Jesus!” the tank commander exclaimed, switching to his scope instead. There were a lot of
snipers on two of the houses in front of him. Meanwhile, the path he and his tanks were trundling
on was littered with wrecks from Charlie Company’s failed assault, meaning there was a very high
chance the enemy had placed IEDs on them. He keyed in his radio onto the platoon frequency.

“This is 154! Watch out for possible IEDs on the wrecks, over.” Within seconds, the rest of the
tanks radioed acknowledgments. The commander also warned Lt Parker about it. The commander
then turned to his loader and ordered that High-explosive shells be loaded. The loader rammed a
round into the breech of the 120mm smoothbore cannon. Parker came on the net. "Copy 154,
thanks for the heads up. Everyone stay sharp, these ETs aren't messing around."

The tanks advanced methodically, sensors sweeping for anomalies amidst the debris field. One by
one wrecked vehicles were bypassed or cautiously circled as the armored column inched forward.

"Gunner, hang a left - take us wide around that burned hulk. Could be a booby trap," ordered 154.
His weapons station analyzed the burnt-out hull but detected no transmitters or metal distortions
indicating IEDs.

They continued the painstaking movement, weaving between obstacles at a snail's pace with guns
traversed and sights scanning. It took 30 minutes to travel 200 meters. Behind them, riflemen
armed with M16s, and Dragon ATGMs brought up the rear. The entire town was silent or seemed to
be. The infantry struggled to keep their trigger fingers disciplined, the silence and fatigue playing
tricks on their mind. They swept through the area multiple times, kicking down doors and entering
abandoned houses. No sign of the enemy yet. The NCO raised his hand in a signal, his squad
nodded, before the breacher kicked the door down.

“Flash out!” a voice cried before two of the flashbangs were vaulted into a room. Two dull flashes
later, the squad advanced inside.

Master Sergeant Donald Masters found the room filled with disoriented combatants. 5 of them.
Two of them had already gotten together and were charging with loud war cries at his group.
Fortunately, Masters wasn’t messing around either. With the time-honed reflexes of a veteran,
Masters’ M4 Carbine swung upwards in the direction of the enemies. With a bang, bullets were
spat out quickly and viciously, blasting open one unlucky bastard’s head and slamming the other in
the neck. His squad wasn’t idling or gawping around either, the 3 remaining ones received a heavy
mixture of buttstocks and combat boots.

“We got contact!” Jeffery, the squad’s DMM (Designated Marks Man) screamed, warning them
before his head disappeared in a sea of blood as a red laser beam hit him. The rest of them
scrambled behind cover. 2 of his soldiers also pulled their three ‘guests’ to the skeptical safety of
the walls. All around them, laser beams were shearing through and coming through one end, flying
and hitting the outer walls. Some men also were lost as their chests exploded and were cauterized
instantly.

Lt Fredrick “Freddo” Walker cursed as the town’s buildings came alive and alight like fairy lights.
The ET laser guns had a snap-hiss sound that was extremely distinct. But the lasers were glaringly,
garishly visible, invertedly telling Bravo Company exactly where the enemies were positioned.
Walker quickly ducked down inwards into the fighting compartment of the Abrams. “Leo! Fire on
the house in front of us. Light ’em up!”

“On the way!” Corporal Leon Stein bellowed before he pulled the trigger. There was a boom, and
the fighting compartment shook a little as the High Explosive shell left the tank gun’s barrel and
was sent flying into the house. There was a great explosion as the windows disappeared in a
tornado of smoke and fire. ET infantries were flung into the sky, both whole and minced into little
pieces. From his scoped sights, Walker could see their own GIs rushing in headfirst, guns blazing
with automatic fire from the M4s and M82s while the M16s gave their staccato bursts.

“Sir, did we take ’em by surprise or did they surprise us?” Boyd, 154s driver asked from his
station.

Walker shook his head grimly. "Little of column A, little of column B I reckon. These ETs hid well
but we weren't exactly stealthy rolling through in our tanks."

Over the net, Sgt Masters coordinated fire teams to sweep the ruined building systematically.
Sporadic shots still echoed from inside as stragglers were flushed out or cut down.

"Looks like they set an ambush, waiting for us to blunder in. Good thing we had eyes overhead,"
noted Stein, referring to the drone recon wing that had been launched ahead of the advance.

“Amen to that,” Walker said tiredly. The drones were a recent addition. MQ-1 Reapers, which the
engineers back home had been working on. They were a godsend, allowing for Recon, without
needing to have recon planes. But, it also meant that the enemy would probably know of that too,
so some form of defense would be needed. But Walker needed to focus on the battle that was
currently occurring.

“Uhh sir, you might wanna look out at the sky above.” The voice of an infantryman, probably an
NCO said over the radio. Cursing slightly, Walker shimmied out of his station and opened the upper
hatch before pulling himself upwards. The sunlight blinded him for a little bit as he propped himself
comfortably in the cupola of his tank. Turning his head upwards, the North Carolina native’s voice
died in his throat at the sight above.

What looked like an entire fleet had somehow been transported from a Television sci-fi opera and
into reality. Like great, golden floating churches, these warships now hovered in orbit. And he
could already see streaks heading downwards to different trajectories, missiles, or landing craft?
Whatever they were, like scalpels they were going down to some target, but that would mean
yesterday’s invaders probably sortied from here. Distant booms echoed across the landscape from
multiple points of impact. Whatever was incoming, it wasn't friendly.

Down in the village, Sgt. Masters and his element had the building secured after a hasty room-
clear. Casualties were being triaged as Steiner's tank provided overwatch.

No sooner had the all-clear been given than a brilliant sphere of light expanded on the distant
treeline. The shockwave tossed men and debris through the air like rag dolls.

"Orbital bombardment! All units take cover, now!" Walker roared over comms just as another fiery
bloom erupted.

The armored column angled their heavily armored bulk between the infantry and the descending
hellfire. Steel skins creaked under the pummeling as protective skirts were sheared away.

"We have to pull back, find some hard cover!" Walker insisted. But where to go with war falling
from the heavens? Their only chance was evasive maneuvering through the killing zone between
the hammer and anvil of enemy fire.

It would be a hell of a fight just to live long enough to regroup and strategize against such an
implacable foe. The fighting raged for hours as Bravo Company battled block by block. Sgt Masters
led his squad room to room, throwing grenades ahead of them as they advanced under withering
laser fire.

“Breacher! Now!” he yelled, and Pvt Davis swung his massive steel ram, shattering a wooden door.
Lasers stabbed out but Davis was already behind cover. Masters tossed in a flashbang and the
squad charged in, M4s blazing on full auto. Two ETs fell, the rest pulled back.
A few blocks away, Lt Walker coordinated supporting arms from his M1A1. “Tank on that nest,
now! Tank two, sweep right, they’re slipping out the back.” Steel rain fell and Bravo pushed closer
to the town center.

Pvt Chen hunkered down with the Javelins, tracking air contacts. A glint in the sky - he fired and
something exploded high above in a shower of debris. “Splash one!” The battle was joined in grim
earnest. Maneuver elements rushed door-to-door, room-to-room with M16s, grenades and
flashbangs clearing each position. Support weapons provided covering fire from windows and
corners as tanks hammered strongpoints from outside.

The close-quarters fighting was a bloody mess. Sgt Masters took two lasbolts to the chest as he
threw himself on a grenade, saving his fire team. Pvt Weber was blinded when laser fire burned
out his optics, staggering onwards until a mercy bullet silenced his agony.

Lt Walker directed tanks from above, guiding their main guns to collapse walls and bring
destruction to enemy redoubts. But the ETs were fanatical, fighting to the last even when overrun.
They dragged down more Concordians with them in their final moments.

A foot-long laser sliced into PFC Thomson's leg at the joint. Pvt Zander dragged herself to his side
under withering fire, stabilizing a tourniquet before lasers ignited the aid bag, engulfing them both
in cleansing flame.

By dusk only scattered pockets of resistance remained. 2nd Platoon had been reduced to a single
battered squad under Sgt Gomez, fighting on raw grit despite mortal wounds. When night came,
the broken survivors gathered amidst the ruins, illuminated only by distant firefights still raging
elsewhere in the village.

Their numbers were too few to continue the attack. Lt Parker ordered withdrawal, calling in
artillery to obliterate remaining strong points under cover of darkness. The cost had been heavy,
but the village had been taken. Whether any victory could be called 'great' in the face of such loss,
none could say. Only that the battle was won, and the enemy destroyed. For now.

Forward Headquarters of Countess General Cassandra Rodion.

“Try again!”

They’d lost contact with their forces at the village a few hours ago. It had started when Col
Chomsky didn’t answer his regular vox-hails. Cassandra hadn’t thought much of it, after all the
battle was literally around them. She could see enemy air assets moving around and could hear
the sound of enemy artillery pounding their positions. Her men’s positions.

“Sorry Ma’am. We can’t seem to get in contact with the Colonel. It could be jamming, or
interference.”

Rodion cursed. This wasn’t good. The village was her sole remaining forward position. She’d lost
contact with all others. All that remained were her defenses that led to her HQ. And now that she’d
seen these rebels’ prowess, she was unsure if her defenses could stand. A positive light in her
situation was that Battlefleet Scolaris and its supporting forces now redesignated as a Compliance
fleet had finally arrived in Nova Arcadia’s orbit. She just needed to see if any of the forces
disembarking were shortlisted for her AO.

“Contact the fleet! See if any of the arriving forces are allocated for the front here!”

The vox-operator fiddled with his set for a while, pressing the headset closer to his ears with his
left hand while his right hand wrote down information rapidly on a notepad. For a good 5 minutes,
there was no other sound but the binary-like beeping and crackling of radiowaves and the distant
artillery booming away. For Rodion, these were the longest 5 minutes of her life, feeling very much
like years or millennia. When the operator's head rose up, the expression on his face was grave.
"Ma'am, no forces have been allocated to our sector, since we were part of the forward landing
elements that arrived planetwide yesterday."

"What! Why?" Rodion was on her feet and striding over to the operator in an instant. "Doesn't the
fleet realize we have bungled up? Our intel was drastically wrong for Throne's Sake! These rebels
aren't your usual ones, and we haven't seen any signs of spaceports! What are we to do corporal?"

The corporal grimaced. "Ma'am these came from Lord Inquisitor Anton Jessup's Cruiser. They arew
still under the impression that we are in control of our area of operations."

"Well, we sure as hel aren't!" Rodion seethed, "Explain to me what the frak's going on? And sure,
the rebels are armed with stub ad autoguns and their vehicles are a bit inferior it's all up to tactics!
Tactics man!"

The corporal spoke quickly. "Ma'am, from what I gather the fleet is coordinating a massive
planetary assault. All available forces are being committed across the world to multiple landing
zones. With our advance elements having reported limited contact initially, this sector was deemed
secure enough not to require immediate reinforcement."

Rodion swore bitterly. "Our intel was worth shit. We've lost control of the village and can't even
raise the colonel. Signal Command again, tell them the situation has turned to shit and we need
assistance or extraction ASAP!"

"Right away ma'am!" The operator frantically worked his vox set. Outside, artillery continued its
ponderous bombardment, but was this a delaying action or her last stand?

Minutes dragged like hours until finally a crackle of static resolved into a reply. "Forward
Command, this is Scolaris actual. We read your situation. Unfortunately, all forces are fully
committed at this time. However, orbital support may be possible within the next firing window.
Hold position and signal for bombardment on my authority alone. Stay strong, relief is coming.
Scolaris actual out."

Rodion gritted her teeth. A munitorum of ammunition, military supplies, and able-bodied soldiers,
all useless without transport. It would fall to her perimeter defenses, her wits, and perhaps literal
hellfire from the heavens to see them through another day.

The corporal swallowed hard. "M-ma'am, the situation has clearly changed from initial reports. But
Battlefleet command is coordinating landings across dozens of key sites planetwide. It may take
time to redirect reinforcements as objectives shift."

Rodion fumed, pacing like a caged animal. "Time is the one thing we don't have, corporal! At this
rate we'll be overrun long before relief arrives. Send a priority alert - our forward garrison has
fallen and the enemy advances. Request immediate support or extraction."

He tapped frantically into the encrypted vox-net, transmitting their dire straits. Only static hissed
back through his earpiece. "Counter-signals or jamming, ma'am. Communications blackout
extends to orbit!"

Her soldiers needed leadership now more than ever. Rodion steeled her resolve. "Issue orders -
pull our scattered forces into perimeter defense of the command post. Have the tech-priests
commence artillery predictive fire on predicted attack vectors. We will make our stand here."

As the base sprang into coordinated action, she accessed a hololithic map display. Their position
glowed lone and isolated amid enemy-controlled territory closing in. One thing was clear - they
would have to hold out against all odds, buying time for the fleet to break through this unexpected
rebel advantage. Victory or death were their only choices left. Rodion intended to make the enemy
pay dearly for every meter.
Central Ulraznavia

The Ulraznavian Bundesheer was one of the most diverse armored armies in the world. While
mostly armed with the iconic Leopard 1 and 2 series as well as the Keiler, MBT-70, Kuirassier, and
other such domestically produced tanks, as well as being home to the largest stockpile of Edenite
and Concordian designs outside of their respective countries. Abrams, Challengers, Pattons,
Chieftains, and Conquerors were all in full supply here. But, the Central Euronian superpower’s
neutrality also allowed it to arm itself with the T series tanks of the Union of Vostokvakian
Republics. T-55s, 62s, 64s, 72s and 80s were also a common sight as the Leopards.

His tank might have been older than he was, but Unteroffizier Meyer was proud of it nonetheless.
That made his current predicament even more galling. He’d driven into the ditch at the side of the
road and was stuck. Worse, he was blocking the road and he could feel the eyes of everyone
behind him boring into the back of his head.

“Dummkopf!” he muttered to himself as he gestured to his driver to swing hard left.

With a clash of gears and a cloud of diesel smoke, the T-55AM-1 tank armed with a Rheinmetall L7
copy-rifled gun eased itself out of the ditch and back onto the road. Meyer climbed back aboard,
clambering over the ‘eyebrows’ on the front of the turret and swinging back into his position as the
tank commander.

“Meyer, sehen!” His gunner’s shout drew his eyes up from the road ahead as three Invader tanks
moved out from the village, positioning themselves to ambush the rest of the battalion as it
continued its advance. They didn’t seem to have seen him and the rest of the column stuck behind
them.

Meyer smiled. His tank may be old, but it had the latest technik and the best crew.

“Range 985m.” His gunner’s glee at getting to use the laser rangefinder against a real enemy tank
was clear.

“Take the front one,” Meyer ordered. “It’ll confuse the other two.”

Switching to the platoon circuit, Meyer’s curt “Zu Leine!” quickly had his other two tanks off the
road and in line beside him. The ETs wouldn’t know what hit them!

The gunner caressed the laser rangefinder lovingly as it pinged the lead Invader. "985 meters. On
the way, kamerad!"

With well-practiced precision, he dialed in the lead and elevation, loaded an armor-piercing round.
Meyer braced as the 105mm rifled cannon kicked back thunderously.

The initial target blossomed in a fiery explosion. Before the Invaders could react, Meyer ordered:
"Nimm die linke!"

Another boom and the left-most tank spun, turret dismounted. But the final enemy swiveled its
gun desperately...

"Feuer! Schnell!" cried Meyer. His gunner frantically traversed and fired again just as the Invader
loosed its own round.

Steel clashed in the dusk as two tanks gutted each other in a single blinding volley. When the
smoke cleared, Meyer saw his gunner had been the fraction faster, their opponent reduced to
burning hulks.

"Gut gemacht!" Radio calls of approval echoed from friendly units witnessing the ambush. Meyer
grinned, already scanning for further targets as the column mobilized once more.
Meyer peered through his scope as the T-55's engine rumble rose to a deep snarl. The rear tanks
slotted neatly into place – they had trained together for years and moved as one mind.

Calmly, he counted down... "Feuer!"

The 105mm shell streaked away with a dull cough, flying level and true. It slammed into the lead
Invader's flank, detonating in a ball of fire that consumed viewports and tore off tracks.

Before the enemy could react, Meyer barked "Nächster!" and his gunner went through the
rhythmic loading cycle once more, hitting the second tank almost as it turned. Its turret flew
spinning into the air.

By now the third was scrambling to return fire, but too late – Meyer's platoon smashed it under a
hail of canister rounds.

Smoke billowed across the roadway from the stricken vehicles. Over the radio, cheers greeted
their commander. "Gut gemacht, Blau Zug!"

Meyer smiled. Old or new, his T-55’s improved armor and upgraded optics had evened the odds.
As for his men, they had proven their skill and teamwork against this unknown threat.

The enemy beyond seemed to realize their ambush had failed. Figures were fleeing the
smouldering village. "Verfolgen!" ordered Meyer. His tanks would pursue and sweep the remaining
Invaders from this territory. The advance could continue.

9. Panzerdivision.

As Oberleutnant Fritz Fischer’s T-72 tanks approached the outskirts of the Batavian town of Rijssen
he called a halt and stopped behind a tree line marking the boundary of a field. He climbed out of
his turret and made his way to the tree line with his binoculars. A few minutes later he was joined
by his good friend Oberleutnant Dieter Bender, who's BMP-1 mounted riflemen were following
Fritz's company, and the commander of the BMP scouts, Leutnant Weber.

“What do you see?” asked Bender.

“Nothing yet, I thought I saw some movement to the left, but no more as yet.” Fritz responded,
before outlining his thinking. “I think we should swing around to the right of the town, go through
the industrial area where it is more open and the unknowns have less concealment.”

Bender and Weber nodded in agreement. After returning to his tank, Fritz gained quick approval
for his plan from the battalion headquarters, and ten minutes later the formation was underway
again, with Weber’s scouts racing ahead.

The line of T-72s burst through the tree line and headed to the right, cutting across fields before
entering wide streets lined with warehouses, factories, and workshops. Bender’s men had
dismounted, escorting the tanks as they moved cautiously through the industrial parkland, while
the scouts covered the left flank.

A glint of sunlight caught Fritz’s eye as he peered forward from his cupola’s vision blocks. As he
searched to find what it was, the adjacent T-72 rocked and was enveloped in a cloud of dust. He
quickly spied a tank off in the distance, amongst some silos.

“Panzer, silos” he barked to his gunner.

His gunner quickly acquired the target and returned with a range, “1300 metres”.

“Feuer frei!” he ordered and his gunner sent a round towards the target.

In the distance there was a burst of flame and dust. Fritz watched as the ET crew scrambled out of
their blocky, chunky and WW1-esque tank.
“Stay alert,” he called over the radio to his company, “there are bound to be more.” Inside the T-
72's cramped crew compartment, Oberleutnant Fischer kept his eyes scanning. Any sign of
movement could spell death.

"Target, 12 o'clock, behind the silos!" barked his gunner Hans. Fritz twisted the turret controls,
bringing the targeting reticle onto a boxy Invader tank moving into position.

"Feuer!" A deafening roar as the 125mm cannon barked, hurling a high-explosive shell on target.
It blossomed in a ball of fire and smoke.

But return fire was incoming. An enemy shell threw up a geyser of debris just short of their tank.
"Load AP, switch to thermal!" ordered Fritz urgently.

The sights flickered, revealing figures fleeing on foot from two more tanks moving to outflank.
"Left tank, fire!" His gunner tracked and loosed another shell in under five seconds.

Outside, Oberleutnant Bender's infantry had engaged. The rattle of MPi-KM and RPKM fire echoed
off the warehouse walls as Corporal Schell's fireteam laid down suppressing fire.

An Invader tank replied, spraying the street with autocannon shells. Two soldiers went down, but
the rest surged forward firing from the hip. A hail of armor-piercing rounds penetrated the enemy's
thinner top armor.

With the enemy flanks engaged, Fritz had a clean shot. "Final target, range 800. Feuer mit Willen!"

The T-72 bucked, and its shell punched clean through the third tank's turret. The battle was over
in minutes, Fritz peered through his binocular periscopes as rounds slammed into distant buildings.
"Gunner, give me a firing solution," he ordered briskly into the throat mic.

"Target acquired, range 1250 meters, slight left diagonal," replied the gunner, carefully inputting
commands into the ballistic computer.

"I have solution," came the reply. Fritz nodded. "Take the shot."

With a dull whoosh the heavy 125mm shell leapt from the barrel, hurtling unerringly toward its
target. Dirt and debris erupted skyward seconds later as the kinetic penetrator shredded through
concrete and steel.

Outside, Weber's scouts sprinted between buildings, keeping low. A burst of laser fire pinged off a
wall - one scout stumbled, clutching a bloody leg. His comrade dragged him to cover beneath a
BMP's frontal armor.

The T-72 column rumbled down another avenue, supporting infantry advancing behind them under
accurate suppressing fire. A series of sharp cracks announced AT RPGs incoming - Fritz snapped,
"Hard right, full speed!"

The driver swung the tank like a runaway train just as rockets detonated against empty pavement.
Rocket-propelled dust billowed across their rear viewports.

"Shift targets, highrise at 12 o'clock," ordered Fritz as they emerged unscathed. His gunner
muttered rapid calculations before the turret whined leftwards. A single laser-guided round
skewered through steel and exploded within, raining shards down on fleeing enemy troops below.
Methodically they advanced, wiping out each resistance pocket with surgical steel. The town was
taken, meter by battered meter, under Ulraznavia's iron fist. Victory would be theirs on this day.

Flagship of Compliance fleet Scolaris, Divine Right.

“I don’t understand. Why in Terra’s name haven’t we conquered most of the planet by now? Their
technology isn’t even that advanced! They haven’t even gotten spacecraft out of repairs, assuming
they have any! We should be sweeping through the planet and finding the traitorous planetary
governor!”
Those, were the words uttered in an exclamation of angry surprise by Lord Inquisitor Anton
Jessup. Sitting in the ornate meeting room with the rest of the key military leaders within the
compliance fleet; Imperial Guard Generals, the Prioress of the two remaining Sororitas orders, the
6 Chapters of Astartes, and various bureaucrats, administrators and navy officers that ran the
operations as well.

“With all due respect Lord Inquisitor.” A general in a brown leather coat began. “I’d say our
operations are off to a good start.”

“A good start!” Jessup snapped petulantly “We should have at least 89 percent control by now!”

“True, they’re technology, at least those examples we’ve seen aren’t that advanced, basic even.”
The same general nodded “But the rebels are fighting hard, not as hard as our boys dying for the
glory of mankind and the God Emperor, you forget that the rebels are also human.”

“Couldn’t you at least try a bit harder,” Jessup asked, crossing his arms innocently in a gesture
that gave the impression he was harmless.

Lord Inquisitor, may I remind you, I am the commander of his fleet? You are merely the Inquisitor
attached to it, for whatever purpose your superiors ordered you too." Lord Admiral Cardin Vallin
finally spoke from his chair, dressed in his blue coat, slightly long grey hair brushed straight. His
experienced clean shaven visage was in a perfect mask of indifference, unreadable.

"I'm only asking that we take this planet in due time." Jessup groused. "Remember we also need
to go to our original destination, the Segmentum Pacificus." Jessup's tactics were willy, he could
turn from harmless idiot to cunning inquisitor like a switch.

"Oh I am sure about that," Vallin replied testily. "However may I remind you, that it was you who
ordered us to take this planet, christened it as Nova Arcadia, just yesterday, and that is when the
invasion began. However, we also agreed that we would need this planet to repair our engines, the
reason we've been traveling sublight. What changed?" Vallin knew Jessup's type, cruel and utturly
heartless. They rarely changed the tune of the drum they were marching to, so what had
happened? And they had no way of contacting Imperial Space anyway.

"Nothing, lord Admiral."

"Spare me your excuses Lord Inquisitor, I know you're a blackhearted viper, so explain. What.
Changed."

"Oh nothing changed Lord Admiral," Jessup replied airily, waving his hand in a casual gesture.

"You've been jittery ever since yesterday Jessup. Care to share your thoughts with the rest of us?
Tell us something we don't know about this planet, we already know its strangeness that it's a
habitable world so big, 1.3000 Cadia's and Holy Terra's could fit in it. It's a civilized world, yes we
know that as well." Vallin's tone was no-nonsense.

"I don't know what you're getting at Cardin!" Jessup said feebly. Vallin bristled at the use of his
first name.

"I'm serious, Cardin. Nothing is wrong." Jessup hissed. "Once this farce has been dealt with, and
we head back, I swear I will have the High Lords of Terra remove you!"

"Very well, but report to my quarters after this briefing for a small chat."

Jessup fumed inwardly but gave a slimy smile. "Of course, Lord Admiral."

Vallin's glare showed he saw through the facade. But there were greater matters at hand than the
deranged whims of one Inquisitor.

He turned to his officers. "Generals, speak. What is the latest assessment of rebel forces?"
A sandy-haired man stepped forth. "Scattered engagements indicate fanatical resistance with
unexpected anti-armor capabilities. Initial gains are piecemeal. However, we lack intel on true
rebel strength and organization."

"The Inquisitor seems convinced of easy victory. I am not," rumbled Vallin. "We will proceed
methodically, securing critical systems and population centers before pressing the hinterlands.
Supply and communication will determine our timetable, not rash demands."

Nods of agreement met his cautionary words. Victory required unity of purpose, not discord sown
by outsiders pursuing hidden agendas.

Vallin's glare returned to Jessup. "An 'easy victory' may become a long campaign. I trust the
Inquisitor's zeal will not outpace our strategic needs. Dismissed - all but the Lord Inquisitor."

As the room emptied, an air of menace descended. Vallin prowled toward Jessup like a predator
sensing blood in the water. What dark forces drove this man, and how far would the Admiral go to
unmask them?

Landing Zone Alpha-7.

Combined forces of the Cadian XIII and Valorous Heart Order Militant.

“Medic! Medic! Medi-“

The screams of terrified Guardsmen weren’t a rarity in battle. New Recruits especially, often
tended to scream more than others. Veteran guardsmen tended to scream only if the situation
demanded it, or if they faced the mind-destroying Warp-born horrors sent by the archenemy. But
the screams here were true, products of their environment, an environment of an operation being
blundered and going horribly wrong.

After her brief combat op yesterday, Angela Sabriya and her squad, under Sister Superior Celestia
had found out that they’d been transferred. Immediately. The entire 3 rd Company had boarded the
Valkyries and headed out back to the ships. At their battle barge (a retrofitted light cruiser really),
the Sisters were given a brief hour of R and R. Armor was scrubbed and cleaned vigorously to its
polished sheen of pre-battle cleanliness, she’d kissed Ayla goodbye, before heading to the meeting
room for their briefing. It had been blunt.

“We’ve got a tense situation down on the surface.” 3rd Company’s Commander, Vestra Analise said
in her usual no-nonsense manner. “While we were busy advancing through villages and finding any
source of local leadership, the 13th Pretorian Guard had been tasked with taking this city on the
banks of a large river.” She indicated with her greaved hand, a glowing icon. “However, enemy
resistance is higher than usual, so, they’re sending us in along with the Cadian XIII. Casualtiy
expectations are unknown as of now, but hopefully will be low. Any questions?

There had been no questions at all, everyone knew what to do, in the great oiled Imperial War
Machine. Blessings were given to weapons, and armor, with tech-priests giving final lookovers
before they were sent to drop-pods, and on their way to the surface they would go. To war again.
Honestly speaking, the drop certainly went better than yesterday’s. Young, green Sister Mayleena,
though a lot less green and still a bit scared, held herself like a veteran. Maria, and Agatha were
praying litanies to the God Emperor, Sister Superior Celestia merely watched the single viewport,
their reentry, while Latia, stroked her heavy combi-bolter lovingly, all while humming a jolly little
tune. For Angela herself, her insides were feeling a lot more jumpy, the separation anxiety from
leaving her daughter safe aboard the cruiser was dimming as they realized, that they were inching
downwards, the ever-closing combat zone. She placed her helmet on her head, covering her brown
hair, while keeping the visor up. Dimly, she was aware that the drop pod had entered a cloud, a
grey, dismal, and soul-crushing fog.

There was a cacophony of explosions as an orchestra of lighting opened up, jagged arcs lighting up
the clouds in swirls and patterns. Contact with the other drop pods was getting staticky. And fear,
the oldest virus known to humankind had begun to spread its insidious talons among the Daugters
of the Emperor, not usually heard of, but possible.

“What in Throne’s sake is that!” Agatha shouted as the drop pod continued its descent through the
clouds through fields of lightning. Surprisingly it was Latia, the “Shoot and burn” member of the
squad who answered, yet didn’t in the way Agatha was expecting.

“I don’t know! I’m not a fething Cog-Head, or a Magos Biologis!” she screamed over the din, a
mixture of the local thunderstorm, and the drop-pod’s own engines. Fear rippled through the drop
pod like an electric current. This was not the expected battlefield. The storm raged outside and
anxiety swirled within as the pod hurtled downward into uncertainty.

"I hate this cog-scraping noise!" wailed Mayleena, clutching her rosarius in a death grip.

"Can't be much further!" shouted Angela hoarsely over the din. But each heartbeat dragged on,
strobing lightning their only view of an ominous world below.

A crackle of static. "This is...ead...do you read, Battle Sisters?! En...nder heavy...fire...all sectors!"

Latia roared a string of profanities that would make a penal legionnaire blush. "By the Throne,
you'd think we were dropping on Armageddon itself!"

The pod shook violently as something large exploded nearby. Agatha's prayer dissolved into
hysterical giggling. "I think I left my laspistol charger on the ship, whoops!"

Sister Superior Celestia just sighed wearily. "My Lord hears our prayers. Have faith, Battle Sisters.
Stay focused on His light."

"Emperor preserve us, what's happening down there?!" cried Mayleena. Through the viewport,
flashes of unnatural light danced between the clouds, a storm the likes of which none had ever
witnessed.

A burst of static, then Celestia's voice came through in their earpieces , frazzled but commanding:
“Sisters, keep faith! We face unknown terrors but the Emperor is our shield. Ready weapons!"

Angela checked her bolter mechanically, finding solace in its oiled movements. Around her, the
others did the same, hands moving through practiced drills to still their nerves.

Then came the first impact jolt. Another, harder. Their pod was being buffeted like a leaf in a
hurricane. Alarms blared.

"We're going down rough, brace for impact!" yelled Latia over the cacophony. Angela gripped her
seat, wishing desperately for her daughter's embrace one last time.

White-hot pain lanced her eyes as a blinding flash lit the pod. A dozen impacts shuddered through
the armor. Loose items tumbled in microgravity.

Smoke filled the cabin. Emergency lights flickered on, casting the Sisters in a hellish glow. Outside,
nothing but swirling grey.

Silence fell, then Celestia spoke once more. “We’ve landed, sisters. Ready yourselves - the
Emperor's work awaits." With a hiss, the outer hatch cracked open. Dread whispered on the wind
outside. Like a crab unveiling itself, the view outside was revealed to be dismal, their beachhead it
seemed was on the banks of the river. Screams and cries were heard outside, and it seemed a
truly chaotic battle had begun. Slowly and tentatively, the squad stepped out into the cold air...
And that’s when the missile slammed into the ground. With a cry. Angela was flung into the air
before landing as gracefully as a bull in a China shop. The explosions continued, and her armor,
once so pristine after its washing was now grimy again. A literal fog now clouded her vision, and
she had no idea where to go, but it seemed forward was her best bet. The rest of the squad had
disappeared, though now, she could hear cries of both Guardsmen and sisters. War had never
been clean; Angela knew that much from experience.

"Frak." she hissed, wiping grit from her eye as she began to move forward. She could see shapes
moving everywhere around her, cut off as they were killed most probably. Guardsmen and sisters
could be heard calling for their officers, or medics. It was a chaotic clusterfuck. Hefting her bolter
while cursing up a storm, she headed into the fog.

Shadowy wisps flashed like strobes in her eyeline before disappearing as quickly as they had
appeared. Dull thumps and screams were heard all around her. She had no clue where the rest of
her squad was, most likely lost in the bloody chaos around her. She coughed as the dust stung her
eyes and entered her mouth. She slammed her helmet’s visor shut, allowing her helmet’s optics to
see. But even that was hampered by the fog, the chaos, and the dust.

“Angela! Over here!” Agatha’s voice called out, seconds later her hand materialized out of the fog.
Angela screamed and turned, trigger finger nearly pulling entirely before her squad materialized,
crouching behind an intact section of a mostly collapsed wall.

“Sisters! Sister-Superior!” Angela said breathlessly in shaken joy. They were alive. A bit grimy, but
alive. Joining them, she peeked out from the corner to take stock of the situation. A group of
guardsmen and Sororitas were cut down by rebels stationed on a bridge, the sheer volume of
stubgun fire overwhelming even Sororitas’ Power Armor. Cries were coming from their side for
help, or officers. Looking beside her, she saw with wide eyes, the bodies of guardsmen and sisters,
all chewed up and filled with bullet holes. Bits and pieces of flesh and blood mixed in with the
water, turning it a horrible, blood red. It was a sight she’d seen on countless worlds before, during
battles with chaos, xenos, and other such filth. Yet why did this make her stomach squirm here, in
a battle with rebels who had strayed from His light?

Angela screamed, clutching her pounding head as the grisly apparition engulfed her senses. But
there was no sound - only deafening silence as her echoing cries faded into the dismal ruddy haze.

She whirled about, grasping for some anchor in the twisting nightmarescape. Only the jet-black
forms jutted from the depths, stark silhouettes bereft of all features. No landmarks, no directions,
only an endless crimson lake thick with drifting horrors.

Her boots sloshed through the viscera, repulsed yet compelled to move. Some primal instinct
driving her onwards into the formless void. Was this place real, or something born of trauma-
wracked psyche spiraling into madness?

Hands trembling, Angela activated her vox-bead with a thought. "C-Celestia...anybody...please

respond..." Static hissed back, devoid even of that small comfort. She was alone in this waking
night-terror realm.

A shape loomed ahead through the murk, as featureless as all the rest. Angela froze, boltgun
clutched tight. Would whatever nightmarish entity lurked within that inky form greet her with
salvation, or fresh terrors unknown?

Her ankle twisted on some submerged obstacle, sending her crashing into the sludge. As the water
closed over her vizor, for a bleak moment Angela wondered if this place would be her eternal
damnation to wander, lost soul adrift in a psychotic purgatory of her own shattered mind's
creation...

‘Angela!’
‘Angela!

‘Angelaaaaaa!!!’

Her eyes opened with a gasp. Agatha was looming over her with a worried look. The rest of the
squad was busy firing suppressing fire down the street. She coughed a little, her throat felt sore
and she felt feverish. Agatha unscrewed her canteen and poured the cool, fresh water down her
lips.

“Angela! Are you alright? You scared us all for a second there!” Agatha said in a concerned voice.
“Is everything alright?” sweet throne! How long had she been out for? She tried to move but
Agatha stopped her from moving, pushing her down. Angela thrashed and struggled viciously, she
needed to get up to help the rest of the squad.”

“M'alright. Agatha. Lemme get up, I can help.” Angela rasped. Her lips felt drier than the deserts of
Tallarn.” She tried once more unsuccessfully to get up but Agatha pushed her down again.

“You will lie down and wait while I administer stims,” Agatha said in a no-nonsense voice, planting
her hands on her hips. “And then, once the stims have taken effect, and if I’m feeling nice, you can
join us in fighting until a Sister Hospitaler arrives, am I clear?”

Angela suppressed a groan as the stims hissed into her neck. She could already feel their battle-
worthy boost coursing through her body, burning away the fog of trauma and fatigue.

"You're a real hard-ass, Agi," she quipped weakly. "But thanks. I owe you one."

Agatha sniffed primly. "You can repay me by staying alive, you stubborn fool. No more heroic
sacrifices or running off alone you hear?"

Angela managed a smile. "Loud and clear, sister. Next time I'll be sure to drag your ass into the
Warp with me."

Agatha harrumphed and began packing up her first aid supplies. Outside, the sounds of battle still
raged as Celestia's battle-canticles echoed down the smoke-choked lanes.

Struggling to her feet, Angela clicked her bolter chamber to arm. The stimms flushed her system
with synthetic vigor but behind the stim-high she could still feel shadows writhing in her mind's
abyss.

_Not now,_ she told the ghosts. _My sisters need me._

“Missile Incoming!!” Celestia screamed back at them. “Fall back to a suitable distance before
pushing forwards again! Go! Go! Go!” she ordered. Angela, the stims having done their work burst
into a flat-out sprint as rubble crashed down around her. The ruins were alive with noise - the
crump of explosions, rattling lasguns and desperate voices crying out.

She bolted through narrow alleyways choked with rubble, her bolter clutched white-knuckled.
Emerging onto an open street, she slid to a halt. A mangled Leman Russ lay where it had fallen,
blocking the way ahead in an impenetrable barricade of smoking steel.

Twisting on her boots, Angela looked for another route. Then a hand grabbed her leg armour from
below. She yelped, bringing her bolter to bear - only to find a Guardsman half-buried under debris,
leg a bloody mess.

"This way - trenchline!" he gasped through gritted teeth, pointing shakily down a side street.

Angela hauled the man onto her back with a grunt, then powered forward again. Emerging onto a
field of churned earth, she found regiment after regiment bogged down under the missile barrage
filling the sky.
Ahead, engineers worked frantically to deepen improvised earthworks that were already
overflowing with huddled soldiers. Angela raced to the sagging embankment and tipped her
passenger over the edge to waiting hands before vaulting in herself.

For a moment the deafening bombardment was muted as she stumbled along the trench, now
filled wall-to-wall with humanity cringing under fire. How long could this line even hold? Terror and
command had broken down completely - but somehow, from nowhere, order began to rise again.