StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Whew. It's been a long time since I posted any work over here, hasn't it? With life in general lobbing various distractions my way, it's been some time since I could really sit down at my comp and bang out a story of any length.

So, I must give much thanks to a couple friends of mine who started up a Deathwatch/Dark Heresy game and invited me along, giving me the chance to craft a new character and involve myself in a great deal of tremendously fun roleplay. And thus giving me ideas for stories, which led to me writing this down. I hope you enjoy.




Against the backdrop of space, the black hull of the Arctica Gloris resembled nothing so much as a missile, hurtling recklessly towards its target: a blue-grey world ringed with ships that wheeled, pirouetted, and exchanged fire with one another across the vacuum just above the planet's atmosphere. Some of them were heavy-set behemoths, gilded with the iconography of the Imperium of Man. Others were ramshackle creations decorated with spikes and tribal insignia, the calling card of the orkish race.

Arctica Gloris was neither of these. Sleek and compact, the Black Ship's sole concession to vanity was the large 'I' imprinted upon the starboard side of its bow planes. Unlike the mighty warships built to absorb oceans of punishment and send volleys of their own devastating fire in reply, the Black Ship was fast, agile, and stealthy. Her creators had never intended her to involve herself in a major naval engagement.

Which made her current headlong charge into the ork fleet all the more insane.

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"Impact, port side!" a voice called out as the bridge trembled.

"Hull breach on Deck Twelve and Deck Thirteen, Section E," a rasping, mechanical voice said a moment later. "Afflicted areas closed off."

"Steady as she goes," came the voice from the captain's chair. Tall, cadaver-thin, hawk-nosed, and egg-bald, every bit as ice-cold as his ship's namesake, Captain Emmanuel Garrickson held his fingers steepled before him, his elbows braced upon the arms of his throne, glaring out the window as if by sheer force of will he could move the enemy ships out of his way.

"Engines running at one hundred and two percent, sir," a worried voice said from the crew pit. "Engine room is reaching redline temperature."

"Steady as she goes," the captain's voice replied, imperturbable.

"Encroachment!" the sensor man, Kelter, screeched suddenly. "Twelve thousand kilometers to bow! Emperor's name, it came out of nowhere!"

"Show me!" Garrickson barked. A moment later, an enhanced image flashed across a portion of the ship's forward view, displaying the profile of a small ork ship, fires sprouting from the length of its hull as it slowly began to turn, bringing its ugly prow around to face towards the distant Black Ship.

"It's turning to intercept, sir!" Kelter called out - rather unnecessarily, Garrickson thought.

He didn't reply to the man, instead he snapped "Mister Nalkar!"

"Aye, sir!" his weapons officer said smartly.

"Clear the way!"

"Aye, sir!" the man repeated, lifting his hand to touch the headset attached to his right ear. "Torpedo tubes one and three! Fire!" A split-second later and Garrickson felt the ship lurch ever so gently beneath him as a pair of hundred-meter-long warheads leapt from their cradles in the ship's bow, screaming away through the void of space towards their distant target. "Torpedoes in the void, sir, ten seconds to impact!" Nalkar said. The man's eyes and indeed every set of eyes on the bridge - bar the servitors of course - were focused on the forward viewport.

The torpedoes dove in towards the ork raider like a pronouncement of certain doom. A few stray beams of energy erupted from the ship as the gunners frantically tried to target the fast-moving warheads, but it was already too late. The twin projectiles pierced the alien ship's shields, their final stage engines firing to propel them recklessly forward into their prey. The first torpedo struck the raider on the topside of her bow, just past the thick sheets of metal that made up her ram, punching through the hull and detonating inside her forward torpedo magazine. The resulting explosion blew the ship's face off, steel melting from the intense heat as her ram detached from the hull, resulting in a spew of wreckage and bodies. The second torpedo was even more successful, striking the enemy ship at the base of her conning tower and plunging through several decks before exploding. Metal buckled and warped, and ork bodies were vaporized by the blast in the dozens. That alone would have been more than enough to declare the strike successful, but the torpedo's detonation must also have severed some vital connection within the raider.

On the bridge of the Arctica Gloris, a cheer went up as the running lights illuminating the enemy ship's conning tower flickered once, twice, and then died. The tower itself began to pitch backwards, like a man with his throat cut open.

"Belay that!" Garrickson thundered, quieting the voices. Despite the success of the strike, the alien raider was still roaring forward, directly in his ship's path. "Helm!" he called out. "Increase pitch fifteen degrees!"

"Increase pitch fifteen degrees, aye sir!" the helmsman replied immediately, already executing the order. The Black Ship shifted gently beneath Garrickson's feet, the ork raider moving marginally lower in her sights.

Not enough, Garrickson decided. "Helm! Twenty degree starboard roll!"

"Twenty degree starboard roll, aye sir!"

The image rotated as the Gloris skewed to the right, looking to squeak past the smaller ship. By this time there was no need for the enhanced image - the bulk of the raider was clearly visible in the forward viewport. "We're going to scrape them, sir!" Kelter called out.

"Sound collision!" Garrickson replied. A heartbeat later the pulsing alarm filled the air, and below decks men threw themselves to the floor, prayed to the Emperor, or both. Most knew that a head-on collision at this speed left scant chance of survival.

Aboard the bridge, men held their breath. Captain Emmanuel Garrickson leaned forward several inches, his unwavering gaze still fixed on the forward viewport.

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Screaming forward at maximum velocity, the Arctica Gloris passed within a half-kilometer to starboard of the dying raider. In the empty void, energy arced and screamed wildly, creating lightning storms as the shield systems of the two ships butted up against one another and fought to occupy the same field of space. Along the length of both ships, gun batteries blazed as their crews lashed out angrily, scoring numerous hits in a brief, furious exchange.

-----------------------------------

"Hull breaches on Decks Seven, Fifteen, and Eighteen-"

"Starboard shields are collapsed, captain!"

"-Delta Battery disabled, fires on Decks Seven and Eight-"

"Engine temperature approaching critical!"

Garrickson ignored the shouted damage reports and lowered his hand to the left armrest of his throne, tapping a brief sequence of keys. "Brother-sergeant," he said.

"Captain."

The voice cut through the chorus of panic on the bridge, and men quieted as they listened to the vox exchange. "We have penetrated through the ork blockade and are now above Tansetch. You may launch at any time."

"My compliments to your ship, captain," the disembodied voice replied. "We launch immediately. Emperor's luck to you."

"And to you, brother-sergeant," Garrickson replied. The channel cut off and a moment later Garrickson was utterly unsurprised when Nalkar turned and announced- "Drop pod away, sir."

"Good," Garrickson replied. For a very brief moment, the man's composure cracked to the degree that he took a long breath and let out a sigh of relief. Then it was gone, and his voice barked orders once more. "Engines, reduce output by thirty percent! Helm, increase pitch forty-five degrees! Mister Voltane, active stealth screens!"

The Arctica Gloris wheeled about in space, pulling out of its headlong rush and fleeing from the scene of the engagement. The Black Ship had done its part – the remainder would fall to the men it had risked so much to deliver.

Yaaaay, Kuja is writing! Hmm...a Black Ship pressed into service as a ghetto strike cruiser. Orks can't be the objective, the Black Ships have a pretty specific remit and non-psyker Xenos don't fit. You have piqued my curiosity!

Minor nit, those are reaally small torps. IIRC they're usually 40-60 meters, sometimes longer, rarely ever shorter. It's more like pitching office buildings at the enemies of Man.

White Haven wrote:Minor nit, those are reaally small torps. IIRC they're usually 40-60 meters, sometimes longer, rarely ever shorter. It's more like pitching office buildings at the enemies of Man.

I couldn't remember how big they were offhand and I didn't have my copy of Execution Hour at the time to check and see if it was mentioned, so I just put ten in and left it there. Guess I've inadvertently created the 40K naval equivalent of Stingers.

EDIT: Yep, I checked my copy and it turns out that the torpedos aboard the Macharius are described as being a hundred meters long. So, I was off by an entire order of magnitude. Now that's embarrassing. Chapter edited to erase my blunder. No wonder I got my ass handed to me so often in BFG.

"Four minutes to atmospheric entry."

The guidance computer spoke with a feminine voice. Doubtless it had been chosen for its soothing component – if so, the effect was largely lost on the team of men held within the metal shell as it hurtled earthwards.

The occupants of the drop pod were five men, each of them impossibly huge on the scale of humanity. Each of them was encased in a black and silver suit of armor that rendered them faceless, only a pair of electronic eyes glowing menacingly in the emergency-red light of the pod's interior. They had been locked into restraint chairs with bolts as thick about as a man's wrist – anything less would buckle under the tremendous weight of the men's armored bodies should the pod become destabilized.

At first glance, they might have appeared identical, each cut from the same cloth. Yet further inspection would have revealed this to be a lie. Though each of them wore the same style of armor – black, with the left arm and shoulder guard painted silver, the pauldron bearing the distinct 'I' of the Inquisition, the shoulder opposite held a different insignia for each of them, a visible callback to their chapters of origin.

Though they might have appeared menacing, even terrifying, there was also a distinct nobility to each of them, to the quiet unity of purpose and their bound strength, represented by those multicolored insignia.

Such were the thoughts of Brother-Sergeant Declan Tiberius, the man who sat at the apex of the pod's interior layout. Behind the faceplate of his helm, his eyes moved from man to man, inspecting them. With the exception of the armored figure to his immediate right, the men in the pod were strangers to Declan. Oh, he knew their names, but that was the extent of it. There had been little time for greetings - the squad had been assembled with indecent haste aboard the Arctica Gloris, the mission one of such importance that the Inquisition had called into action the nearest of its famed Deathwatch marines rather than take the time to call in a fully-manned squad.

With the planet under siege by the orks, Declan understood their haste. Still, it sat poorly with him that he had been given so little time to familiarize himself with the men who would momentarily be fighting under his command. On Macragge, the world of his birth, Declan had learned the value of the bond of brotherhood between men and its crucial importance to the effectiveness of the Adeptus Astartes. As a member of the Ultramarines, he had used that bond to encourage and support his fellows, bringing the best out of them and pushing them through the dark moments in the endless wars of the Imperium where lesser men might have broken. It had earned him his promotion to sergeant and, during his time with the Deathwatch, had served him well amongst the diverse – and sometimes motley – array of space marines that made up the Chamber Militant.

He pushed those thoughts to the side. "Extern," he subvocalized into his helmet's vocal receptors, activating the external channel. "Final check," his voice boomed out into the tiny space. "Report status. Techmarine Silvine?"

The hulking form the squad's techmarine did not move as he answered. "All of my systems are operating at one hundred percent, brother-sergeant. My weaponry is sanctified and prepared for battle." The voice of Plato Silvine was deep, resonant, and precise, much like the man himself. Silvine's right shoulder bore the silver claw of the Iron Hands, behind which was mounted the genuine metal claw of the techmarine's servo arm. Gripped in the techmarine's own hands was his boltgun, shining and pristine.

"Brother Kadmiel?" Declan asked. The man to his right turned his head slightly, the pale green eyes of his helm looking sidelong at the sergeant. "Fully operational. The Emperor protects." Declan nodded in response. It was a rare privilege, he thought, for an Ultramarine to serve directly alongside a fellow son of Guilliman. Kadmiel's shoulder was marked with an image of a winged skull, the crest of the Doom Eagles successor chapter. The Doom Eagles were notable for their taciturn demeanor, and Kadmiel was very much iconic of that disposition. Still, he and the Stalker-pattern bolter clutched in his hands had served alongside Declan with remarkable efficiency and skill for several missions now, and the Ultramarine was pleased to have Kadmiel's familiar voice at his side.

He turned his head to face the marine immediately to his left. The massive jetpack attached to Torin Firemane's shoulders made the man appear hunchbacked, and the long beak of his Corvus-pattern helm added to the air of menace that hung about the assault marine. Upon first glimpse of the wolfspaw design on the man's shoulder, Declan had been expecting friction, for Space Wolves were notorious for their wild and independent streak. "Brother Torin?" he asked. There was a brief moment of silence and Declan frowned behind his helmet. "Torin?" he asked again.

"Armor shows green lights, jetpack fully fueled, connection stable," the assault marine replied, his distinctive Fenrisian accent clipping his words.

"Why the hesitation?" Declan demanded.

"Ye caught me dozing, brother-sergeant."

There was a long moment of shocked silence in the drop pod. "Dozing?" Declan repeated in disgust.

Torin's shoulders heaved up, then down. "Nothin' else to do on this ride, is there?"

Over their private channel, Declan heard a very soft sound, suppressed just too late as someone snorted. The sound passed by too quickly to identify the source, but he had a pretty good idea of who it had been. He turned his gaze onto the last of the five marines, the one that had come about the Arctica Gloris along with the Space Wolf. "Something amuses you, brother Lucian?" he asked sharply.

"Absolutely not, brother sergeant," the Dark Angel replied in an utterly composed voice. "All of my armor's systems are operating within acceptable parameters. I thought I detected an interference in my communications, but it appears to have vanished."

"Interference?" Declan repeated. "Has your armor suffered damage, brother?"

"No, sir. I suppose it could have been Torin snoring."

The Space Wolf huffed aloud and Declan scowled. "That's enough," he said. "I do not know how things worked in your previous assignment, but under my command you will conduct yourselves with the dignity expected of the Adeptus Astartes Deathwatch. Is that clear?"

"Yes, brother-sergeant."

"Aye, brother-sergeant."

"One minute to atmospheric entry," the pod supplied helpfully.

"Gentlemen," Declan continued, "in a few more seconds we're going to hit the ground. Then we're going to be doing what we were built and trained to do. I've no talent for speeches, so I won't make you suffer through an attempt at one. You know your duty, and we'll teach these green-skinned bastards what it means to defy the will of humanity. In the Emperor's name!"

"In the Emperor's name!" the squad replied.

"Atmospheric entry in three...two...one…"

The drop pod suddenly jolted and began to vibrate as it fell into the atmosphere of the hive world. The hull temperature began to rise immediately and before long the interior of the pod grew uncomfortably warm. Declan heard someone – it sounded like Lucian – murmuring a prayer to the Emperor under his breath.

"Silvine," Declan called out, more to distract his mind than any other reason, "are we on course?"

"A moment, brother-sergeant," the techmarine replied. Declan saw his fingers move at the edge of his armrest and a line-green display suddenly popped up in front of Silvine's face. From Declan's angle, it was skewed and backwards, but the Iron Hand must have been able to make sense of it, because he promptly reported: "atmospheric course disruption within acceptable parameters. The pod's engines are compensating. We are on course for Belcia Principal." There was a pause. "Brother-sergeant, there is recorded damage to the heat shield."

"Explain," Declan barked. If the pod's heat shield cracked, the entire Deathwatch team would be fried within moments. "Why were we not warned of this?"

Silvine did not reply immediately. His fingers twitched, and the display in front of him shifted as the techmarine called up a different report from the onboard computer. "Scarring across the face of the heat shield," he replied. "It could possibly have been caused by las-scoring from the battle."

"Damnation," Declan swore. "Is the shield compromised?"

"No," Silvine said immediately, and Declan was certain he heard someone exhale over the suit-to-suit comm.

"Time to touchdown?"

"Forty seconds, brother-sergeant."

"Do you have a fix on our destination?"

"I do. It appears we will touch down some distance to the east."

Declan took a breath and forced himself to relax. Just a few more seconds and then he and his team would finally free of this damned infernal metal shell…

"Touchdown in fifteen seconds. Heat shield disengaging," Silvine said. The pod lurched as the armored shell that had protected them through their fiery descent split and fell away. "Ten seconds. Braking rockets fir-"

The pod suddenly jolted, hard, as if it had been kicked by a titan. The lights flickered and metal screamed as the marines within were thrown against their restraining harnesses with a force that would have killed an unarmored man.

The screaming lasted only a split-second, and then there was peace. Just enough time for Lucian to ask "What the h-"

Then the pod slammed into the ground with all the force of a stubber round freshly fired from the barrel. Declan felt his sense of balance roar in protest as the shell rotated around him, his sense of direction flipping upside-down as the pod rolled, bounced, and juddered, shaking its occupants mercilessly until Declan thought that his teeth were going to rattle right out of his mouth. There was a horrible groaning sound, like some kind of cosmic grindstone, and the pod finally came to a halt, leaving Declan on his back looking up at the rest of his squad.

"Lucian!" he snarled. "Punch us out!"

The Dark Angel disengaged the restraining bar over his left arm and swung his armored fist out to slam it into a large, circular red button. There was a blare of alarms and the pod's doors began to cycle open, hydraulics whining.

The Astartes drop pod had been designed in the vague shape of a pyramid, with the blunt end containing the braking rockets that were supposed to slow the descent at the last moment and allow the pod to touch down gently. The four doors, one on each side of the pyramid, opened outwards from the top down, the one facing the ground pushing the pod upright.

"Break restraints!" Declan ordered as the floor beneath him became level. "Standard dispersal! Go!"

The restraints broke beneath the five armored figures and the Deathwatch team rushed out onto the surface of Tansetch, weapons drawn.

No one was waiting for them.

The pod had come down atop an elevated highway – Declan spared a moment to thank the Emperor it had not punched through. As far as he could see, the city around them was bare of life, though the wreckage in the streets and the occasional plume of smoke spoke to the conflict. In the distance, he could see the massive towers of Belcia Principal, stretching so high as to reach the clouds that floated overhead.

"Clear!" Kadmiel barked after a moment. The other squad members followed in rapid succession.

"Confirm clear," Delcan said.

"Oy, brother-sergeant," he heard Torin say. "Take a look at this."

Declan turned and stepped around the edge of the pod to join the assault marine. Stretched out along the highway were the jagged scars of the pod's violent landing. Torin pointed, and in the distance Declan could see a high-rise building, damaged by the battle. A C-shaped hole had been blown in the southwestern corner of the structure, and twisted lengths of loose metal dangled from the damage point.

"Artillery round?" he asked, speculating.

Beside them, he heard Lucian chuckling as he, too, stepped around the edge of the pod to join them. "I think it looks more like air to ground, brother-sergeant. Probably dropped from orbit."

Declan frowned. Lucian's statement didn't make any sense. An orbital bombardment would have flattened entire blocks, not simply put a dent in one solitary building. Add to that that the damage wasn't angled towards the sky, but rather was situated at an angle three-quarters of the way down the building's side-

That was when Declan realized that the hole matched up perfectly with the scars spanning the length of the roadway. He snorted. "Well, at least now we know what that damned kick was," he commented as he turned away.

He strode around the side of the pod to join Silvine. The techmarine still held his bolter in one hand, but it was pointed towards the ground while the Iron Hand held an auspex up to his eye level and scanned the surrounding area. "You said you have a fix on our destination, brother?" Declan asked, remaining off to the side so that his armored bulk did not disrupt Plato's work.

"I do, brother-sergeant. I am currently cross-referencing our coordinates against the structure of the city." The auspex beeped softly and a moment later a small green triangle appeared in the corner of Declan's vision. He turned his head, facing towards the southwest, and a miniature reticle appeared in the difference. A small '50.00' hovered in the space above it.

"Fifty kilometers?" he asked.

"Approximately," Silvine confirmed.

"Is there any orkish presence between us and the destination?"

There was a brief pause. "Indeterminate, brother-sergeant. The evidence of recent fighting suggests they remain in the city but I cannot pinpoint their current location."

"It seems they've left this area behind."

"I would agree with that assessment."

"Alright then," Declan said, lifting his voice a little. "You heard the techmarine, brothers. We've got a fifty-kill run ahead of us. We're going to stay low and stay out of sight. If we find orks that we can't circumvent, we kill them fast and clean. We can't afford a delay."

As he spoke, the man turned and walked back into the pod, removing the cover on a small interface. He tapped a code into the keypad there and the LED display flashed 99:99 for a brief moment. Then it switched to 15:00. Then 14:59.

"Move it!" Declan barked. The Deathwatch squad left the pod behind and began to run. The five armored men cut an impressive figure as they made their way southwest along the southern lane of the highway, their long strides rapidly eating away the distance that stood between them and their objective.

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The buggy swerved to the side to dodge a particularly large vehicle that had been abandoned on the road. Normally the buggy's driver wouldn't have bothered to do so, but he doubted that his ride could have smashed the big truck. Instead he'd probably end up with his nose in the side of it and have to spend twenty minutes pushing it back out, and that was no fun.

A smaller vehicle sat behind the big truck and the side of it brought a tusked grin as the driver put his foot down. The crunch of metal as his right-side tires crushed the forward section of the luxury vehicle was more than satisfying enough to make up for the momentary disappointment of missing the truck.

The ork whooped in delight as his buggy leveled out in the wake of the deliberate collision. He was a small one as orks went, two meters tall and three hundred kilos. That hadn't stopped him from landing himself in a buggy seat where he could put the pedal down and smash whatever he wanted, because he made up for his size with a talent for scrounging that had helped his chief become a right proper Boss, with lots of flashy guns and rockets and other stuff that either went boom real nice themselves or made other stuff go bang really good.

So when the buggy driver had seen the meteor come down, naturally he'd turned his vehicle towards it and opened up the throttle, hoping to scavenge something good from the landing. The humie roads turned this way and that through the big buildings, and once or twice he thought maybe he'd gotten lost, but then he drove up a wide ramp - crushing a fallen street sign in the process - and saw the smoke rising in the distance. He grinned and headed towards it.

It turned out to be more intact than he'd hoped. A big, black, thing...sitting in the middle of the road. The ork licked his tusks eagerly as he hit the brakes and came to a screeching halt next to the weird thing. His buggy jounced slightly as he stepped out and knocked his knuckles against the side of the weird find. Nice metal. No rivets or anything! The ork turned and stepped up onto one of the big ramps at the thing's base to poke his head inside.

What he saw there took his breath away.

He scrambled the rest of the way up onto the ramp and dashed inside, heedless of potential danger before throwing himself into one of the big, soft, cushioned chairs inside with a yelp of pure delight. Comfy seats! Maybe not blasty, but who didn't love a comfy seat? The boss would reward him big for one of these! Maybe he'd even get to keep one and put it in his buggy - there were enough to go around.

The chairs had buttons on their armrests. The ork pushed a couple, but to his disappointment nothing happened. Things began looking up again, though, when he found the kit of stuff underneath one of them. The kit had a couple wrenches, a nice flashy light that would look good bolted to his buggy's roll bar, and a couple of weird tube things that looked like big bolts. He pulled the cap off one and barked in pain when the end suddenly lit up with a bright red fire. The ork grinned. That would go over good with the boys!

He set that aside - careful not to point it towards any of the chairs - and went back to his scavenging. Also in the kit were a couple of things wrapped up in flimsy foil. He tore one in half and looked at it. He sniffed it. A humie snack? He bit into it. A moment later he sputtered and spat out the gruesome mouthful, flinging the ration bar away as hard as he could.

Who ATE that kind of stuff? No wonder the humies were so puny.

The ork was distracted from his rummaging by a nearby beep. He leapt to his feet, all else instantly forgotten. Beeping usually meant something he could salvage! The beeping continued and the ork quickly followed it back to the source, a little keypad with a glowing display over it. Right now it was showing three little box things and a weird zigzag. Then it beeped and the zigzag turned into a box on top of a stick.

The ork frowned and punched at a couple of the buttons, but to no avail. The box on a stick turned into a trio of pointing fingers, then that switched to another weird zigzag, then that turned into a stick. Then all four of the glowing runes turned into the same big, empty box.

The ork thought: humie writing is so weird.

The drop pod's autodestruct immolated the entire craft, as well as everything within five meters. The ork's buggy rocked backwards onto its rear tires from the force of the blast. When it came back down, the front wheels struck the roadway with sufficient force that the weakened structure collapsed, dumping the wreckage of the pod and the buggy alike onto the level beneath. As the buggy hit the ground, its promethium tanks jolted loose, tearing free of the fuel lines and dumping their precious liquids all over the burning remains of the drop pod.

In the end, the ork's find proved spectacular indeed.

Kuja wrote:I couldn't remember how big they were offhand and I didn't have my copy of Execution Hour at the time to check and see if it was mentioned, so I just put ten in and left it there. Guess I've inadvertently created the 40K naval equivalent of Stingers.

EDIT: Yep, I checked my copy and it turns out that the torpedos aboard the Macharius are described as being a hundred meters long. So, I was off by an entire order of magnitude. Now that's embarrassing. Chapter edited to erase my blunder. No wonder I got my ass handed to me so often in BFG.

You're not the first author to do that, and some of them were even writing in licensed novels (read light torpedo broadsides.)

I actually think torpedoes and missiles get used interchangably in fluff for some bizarre reason, so it probably doesn't matter. Just call em light torpedoes or something.

(BFG and RT put torps at something like sixty metres. Rennie's BFG novels had torps varying between 30 and 100 metres depending on the book.)

Connor MacLeod wrote:

Kuja wrote:I couldn't remember how big they were offhand and I didn't have my copy of Execution Hour at the time to check and see if it was mentioned, so I just put ten in and left it there. Guess I've inadvertently created the 40K naval equivalent of Stingers.

EDIT: Yep, I checked my copy and it turns out that the torpedos aboard the Macharius are described as being a hundred meters long. So, I was off by an entire order of magnitude. Now that's embarrassing. Chapter edited to erase my blunder. No wonder I got my ass handed to me so often in BFG.

You're not the first author to do that, and some of them were even writing in licensed novels (read light torpedo broadsides.)

I actually think torpedoes and missiles get used interchangably in fluff for some bizarre reason, so it probably doesn't matter. Just call em light torpedoes or something.

(BFG and RT put torps at something like sixty metres. Rennie's BFG novels had torps varying between 30 and 100 metres depending on the book.)

It can be argued also that the size of the ship in question can have a diffrence in torpedo sizes as a Cobra class escort is much smaller and has smaller launch tubes with a smaller amount of space to devote to the torpedo magazine then an Armaggedon class battlecruiser which has the space (and manpower) for larger launch tubes, a bigger torpedo magazine and a much greater punch with the larger torpedoes it could carry, similar to the quality of thier main battery armaments (ie the bigger ship carries the bigger gunz).

It should be noted that Inquisition forces also tend to have higher quality and more efficent gear then almost all other forces so they could have smaller torpedoes that pack the punch of a larger one due to better (and much rarer) technology.

The Deathwatch team made good time along the alleys and crossroads of Belcia Principal. They kept close to the walls of the massive buildings, darting quickly from cover to cover when they had to pass through an empty space. They exchanged not a word during their journey, and before long ten kilometers had vanished under their rapid stride, all without a single sign of life either ork or human.

As Declan's display ticked over to thirty five kilometers, Torin suddenly stopped and held up a fist. Behind the assault marine, the other members of the squad froze in place, weapons at the ready. "Weapons fire," Torin said over the channel.

Even as he said the words, the sound of it reached Declan's ears. Las-fire, as well as the heavier report of stubber rounds and the rapid chatter of autoguns. "From ahead?" he asked. The echoes off the buildings made it difficult to discern the origin of the noise.

"Aye, brother-sergeant," the assault marine replied.

Declan made a split-second decision. "No time to go around," he said. "Ready your weapons brothers. We'll go straight through them. Torin?"

"Aye, brother-sergeant?"

"You have permission to engage as you see fit."

"Aye, sir!"

"Into them and through them, brothers! For the Emperor!"

The team charged forwards, armored boots thundering on the pavement. Another road came and went as they ran across it. Ahead, between two buildings, lay a makeshift barricade - Declan recognized it as the plow of an Imperial tank, the kind of steel face that could absorb incoming enemy fire or detonate land mines before the vehicle's tracks struck them. Beyond, Declan could see the flash of weapons as they fired. Torin, the first one of them to reach the barricade, ignited his jetpack and flew up into the air, arcing over the barricade atop a tongue of flame. His bolt pisol bark as he fired down at whatever lay on the other side.

"Lucian! Kadmiel! With me!" Declan roared. The three marines put their shoulders down and together, slammed into the steel barricade with all the force of a heavy lifter. The makeshift bolts that had attached the plow to the buildings on either side burst free from their seating and the plow toppled backwards with a loud boom of metal as it struck the ground.

Declan barely heard it as he, Lucian and Kadmiel opened fire with their bolters, Silvine joining them a moment later as he too stepped from the alley to unleash the Emperor's wrath upon the orks beyond. And there were a lot of orks to shoot. The bolter rounds chewed through bodies that ranged from dark jade to pale willow. Declan saw Kadmiel lift his Stalker-pattern bolter up to his eye and the specialized long-range weapon sent a round flying past the orks into the fuel tanks of a large war trukk manned by a dozen of the creatures. The bolt punctured the tank and the vehicle exploded enthusiastically, ammo cooking off wildly in the wake of the blast.

The brutal attack worked perfectly. The orks screamed and bellowed at one another, firing their weapons wildly as they sought to pinpoint the source of the sudden noise. Some of them even shot at their fellows, perhaps in panic or perhaps believing that their warbands were simply turning on one another.

To the northwest, Declan could see an Imperial flag raised high above what had once been a city park and was now an armed encampment of Tansetch's planetary defense force. The orks had evidently come rolling up the street and their roving warband had come upon the troopers, perhaps by accident. Still, from the amount of wreckage in the street, the orks had been getting the worst of the encounter even before the Deathwatch had arrived.

"Make for the Imperials!" Declan barked, and the squad swung northwest, charging into the greenskins proper. Declan took his hand from his bolter and reached to his hip, drawing his power sword and igniting it with a flick of his thumb. The humming weapon bit through ork flesh a moment later, parting muscle and bone alike like wet paper. Lucian and Kadmiel likewise drew their weapons, chainswords revving as they began to hew through the green tide. To Declan's right, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the techmarine Silvine forego drawing a weapon. Instead the Iron Hand began to lay into the orks with his servo arm. The heavy, mechanized appendage swung about the marine's bulk with a wild, seemingly random flair, crushing skulls and snapping limbs with the weight of its powerful strikes.

To Declan's left, Torin suddenly dropped out of the sky, his boots thudding into an ork's chest and driving the creature to the ground. The assault marine shot the ork in the face with his bolt pistol, spattering the contents of the xenogen's skull across the roadway before drawing his own chainsword and laying into the orks with relish.

The appearance of the space marines and the effectiveness of their attack spurred a redoubling of effort from the guns of the PDF. Las-fire raked the greenskins, sheet after sheet of pulsing energy shooting them down in droves. Between the hammer of the Deathwatch and the anvil of the troopers' guns, the orks were slaughtered quickly and soon the sound of gunfire was replaced by a different noise.

Brother-sergeant Declan Tiberius smiled beneath his helmet as the sound of mens' cheering filled his ears. As the Deathwatch squad made their way past the barriers of their camp and into their midst they were surrounded by troopers in slate grey uniforms who cheered and slapped at their armor in tribute. It was a marked contrast to the shocked, stammering reaction with which Declan was normally greeted upon arrival to a new world.

"Welcome to Tansetch, Astartes!" a grinning man in officer's stripes said with a salute. "Many thanks for your timely intervention, lords." A roar of approval followed from the men.

Declan stepped forward to stand before the man. "My greetings, Major..."

"Telson, lord Astartes," the man replied.

"Major Telson, are you the ranking officer of this encampment?"

"I am, lord," Telson replied, his face turning quizzical. "But, surely you intend to take control...?"

"No, Major Telson, I don't," Declan said. "My team and I are en route to a rendezvous, west of here, and we must make haste."

"Ah. I see," the man said with evident disappointment. Still, he rallied well. "You're in luck, then. West of this line, the city is still under Imperial control. Most of the fighting is to the south."

"Thank you, Major. Now my men and I must leave you."

"Emperor's strength to you, lord Astartes. Men! Attention!" All around them, the PDF troopers snapped to attention, hands held high in salute.

"And the Emperor's strength to you, as well," Declan replied. With a nod, he stepped past the major and the rest of the team followed suit.

"Lord Astartes!" Telson's voice called out. Declan turned back to look at the man. "At least let me offer you a vehicle."

In retrospect, Brother-sergeant Declan Tiberius almost wished he had refused the PDF Major's offer.

The only vehicle in the PDF's possession at the forward position capable of transporting the Astartes turned out to be a large flatbed hauler that had been conscripted from civilian use to transport ammunition supplies to the front from the storehouses and, on occasion, take wounded soldiers to the medicae stations.

Declan wondered how any of them survived the trip.

Despite its size and the stability provided by the vehicle's wide base and eighteen sturdy wheels, the flatbed bucked constantly and rocked to and fro the entire duration of the trip. The driver, a relentlessly cheerful PDF corporal, continually apologized for the rough ride, promising that it would "smooth out just up around the corner." Whichever corner it was that the man might have meant, it never came.

Still, the ride meant a ten-minute trip the rest of the way to their destination rather than however long it might have taken the team to get their on foot, navigating alleyways and circumventing barricades. Declan continually reminded himself that earlier in the day, he had been bolted into a flimsy metal shell and dropped from orbit to crash into the ground.

He wished that he were back in the drop pod.

The man shook his head, annoyed with himself. Declan Tiberius had endured many hardships in his life. A bucking cargo hauler was not in any way the worst of these.

The cargo hauler hit another bump and bucked to the left. None of the Astartes in the rear did anything quite so undignified as fall over, but both Kadmiel, who had been loading fresh shells into his bolter, and Lucian, occupied with rubbing a bit of repair cement into a minor grace to his armor plate, lurched to the side as the vehicle shook.

Lucian chuckled. "I must remember to make a formal complaint to the Belcia Principal Municipal Office before we depart. The state of their roads is quite atrocious."

Torin snorted and Declan heard a dry, coughing noise that he recognized as the supremely rare sound of Kadmiel's laughter.

"Sorry m'lords!" the driver called back from the cabin. "Smooth part's comin' up ju-"

"Just around the corner, aye laddie, ye've said that three times now!" Torin said.

Despite himself, Declan grinned beneath his helmet.

"Believe me, m'lords this used to be the smooth part!" the man hollered back. "Shelling from the ork guns down southwest broke the pavement up a bit the last few weeks."

"Artillery?" Kadmiel asked. "The roadways are not secure?"

"Oh they are now, m'lords! Three days ago one of the Thunderbolt squads overflew their position and let them know we'd had quite enough of 'em gunning at our trucks!"

"How did the orks take it?" Lucian asked.

The man laughed. "Quite, ah, energetically, you might say m'lord!"

The laughter of Adeptus Astartes is a singular thing. Hard and harsh, with a gruff edge and a metallic tang thanks to the helmets they wear. Declan, Kadmiel, Torin, and Lucian all laughed deeply at the dog-trooper's jest. Only Silvine seemed immune to the humor, but Declan knew better than to try to coax the techmarine into joining them.

"Command post is coming up, m'lords!" the man called out and then, without even giving the Astartes further warning, he hit the vehicle's brakes. The wheels squealed as the vehicle lurched to a halt and the armored figures within rocked back and forth as their momentum dissipated.

Declan heard the sentry's voice interrogating the driver from outside. "Orders?"

"Special delivery from Major Telson, sir," he heard the driver reply.

"Special delivery? What the bloody hell are you talking ab-"

Declan jumped down from the flatbed.

"…oh," the man said.

The Deathwatch squad hopped down one by one - one immense, armored figure after another, the faces of the sentries going paler each time another set of armored boots hit the pavement. "Our thanks for the assistance," Declan said as he passed the driver's door.

"My pleasure, m'lords," the man said with a grin. He made his hand into a fist, his thumb held upright. "Emperor's grace go with you, and give the green bastards hell."

"You may rest assured of that," Lucian said as he passed the door. "And do be careful on the return trip. I believe there may be a bit of rubble to watch out for." Torin snorted, and the trooper laughed.

Declan walked up to the sentry that had been questioning the driver. The man stared up at him, pale and rooted to the spot. "I am Brother-sergeant Declan Tiberius of the Adeptus Astartes Deathwatch," he said. "I request entry authorization for myself and my squad."

"Guh…granted, my lord," the sentry said slowly.

"Thank you. Please tell me," he added. "Where might my squad and I find the command staff?"

"Thuh….they're in the primary structure, lord. You can get better directions from the men at the entry."

"Thank you," Delcan said again. He stepped around the man and walked through the gateway, his squad following after him. Behind them, he heard the cargo hauler rev its engine and depart.

The PDF 'command post' turned out to be a luxury hotel. Or at least, it had been, before the grounds had been covered in barbed wire and defensive emplacements, the lots for vehicles to park had become a staging area for troopers, and the lobby had become a killing zone of lascannon emplacements. As the Deathwatch squad made their way up the main road towards the grand entrance, men everywhere stopped and looked at them, murmured whispers filling the air punctuated by a few whoops of delight. Men waved. Men saluted. The Astartes returned neither. As they walked, Declan watched the last few numbers tick away on his heads-up display:

10m

5m

0m...

As they tromped into the spacious lobby of the hotel – less spacious than it had once been now that it was full of military equipment – they were greeted by a squad of troopers armed with las-rifles. They looked pitiful next to the armored majesty of the Astartes. "Can, ah, we help you, my lord?" their sergeant asked.

"We have come in response to a distress call, Priority Alpha, from the Inquisition's holdings on-planet," Declan replied. "We were given these coordinates for rendezvous. Where is the Inquisitor?"

"She's here," a voice called out before the man could reply.

Declan turned his head. A newcomer had joined them in the lobby, walking quickly from the lifts to the higher levels. The woman was tall, full-figured, dressed in a black bodyglove over which she wore a set of carapace armor and a large storm-coat, giving her an imposing figure. Her right hand was a glossy black augmentic. Her eyes were hidden behind mirrored glare-shades. Her hair was jet-black, long enough to frame a pale, classically beautiful face with high cheekbones and full lips. At her breast, hanging from a chain around her neck, was the double eagle of the Imperium of Man. At her hips were holstered a bolt pistol and a power sword.

She reached inside her coat with one hand – the non-augmentic one – and retrieved the infamous calling card of the Holy Ordos – the rosette emblem of the Inquisition. As she held it out, Delcan saw that she also wore a signet ring bearing the same stylized 'I' on the third finger of her hand.

"I am Inquisitor Kristania Veritas, Ordo Xenos. Thank you for coming so quickly, brother-sergeant," she said in a brisk tone

She was…not what Declan had expected.

Ho boy a Death Watch team requested by an Inquistor, not a good sign of things to come.

Granted the title alone gives that away. For the famous Doomsday clock.

Intellectually, Declan knew that many Inquisitors operated in the field, with minimal assistance or sometimes none at all. In his nine years with the Deathwatch, however, he had encountered none of these. Instead he had been treated to an ever-changing lineup of the sort who chose to stay behind in their offices or their ships, permitting their operatives or the Deathwatch – or both – to attend to the physical work.

And he had never seen a woman.

That didn’t slow him as he and his squad moved to face the Inquisitor as she replaced her rosette inside her storm coat. "Madam Inquisitor, my team and I stand ready to assist you. What is our mission?"

The woman smiled slightly. "For the moment, brother-sergeant, it would be to follow me." The Inquisitor turned on one booted heel and walked away, the Deathwatch team following in her wake. She led them through the wide halls of the hotel, past the gilded lifts to the upper floors, the dining halls, the conference rooms, all of them bustling with PDF troopers and their support personnel. She led them to a service lift and once they had all boarded, keyed the controls so that the platform began to descend. Declan noticed that she used the augment for this, the glossy black fingers moving with surprising speed and delicacy.

Then she turned, looking from one armored figure to another as the lift descended. "Your names, battle-brothers?" she asked.

"I am Brother-sergeant Declan Tiberius, Madam Inquisitor," Declan replied. "To my immediate right is Kadmiel, my marksman." Kadmiel nodded and the woman returned the gesture. "To my immediate left is is Techmarine Plato Silvine."

"Madam Inquisitor."

"Brother Silvine."

"To Silvine's right is Torin Firemane, my close combat and assault specialist."

"Pleasure, Madam Inquisitor," the Space Wolf rumbled.

"A pleasure, brother Firemane," she replied.

"And finally, to Torin's left is battle-brother Lucian."

"My greetings to you, Madam Inquisitor."

"My greetings, brother Lucian," the woman said with a nod. As she spoke, the lift came to a halt and she turned to exit the platform. "Please follow me, gentlemen," she said as she did so. The five Deathwatch marines tromped along the basement corridor behind her, past a pair of makeshift autocannon nests crewed by more awed PDF men.

Inquisitor Veritas led the squad to a room occupied by a trio of figures standing around a wide table the surface of which was as smooth as polished glass. "Madam Inquisitor," said the tallest of the three as the woman entered, "I hope…" he paused briefly as the armored figures followed her in, "I see that this is a matter of importance," he corrected. "The Tansetch PDF is at your disposal."

"Thank you," she replied as she came abreast of the table. "Gentlemen, I would like to introduce to you one Brother-sergeant Declan Tiberius of the Adeptus Astartes Deathwatch. I sent for his team four weeks ago. Brother-sergeant, before you stand General Amadeus York of the Tansetch Planetary Defense Force and Captain Joachim Barlow, commander of the local air corps." General York was the tall man who had spoken to the Inquisitor, his craggy features and greying hair – cropped into a tight crew-cut – testifying to a long career and a rank earned the hard way. Barlow, the other man, was short and pale, a dandified man in fresh clothes. Were it not for the augmentic fingers on one hand, signifier of some past injury, Declan would have been tempted to dismiss him as a fop.

"Welcome to Tansetch, Lord Astartes," York said with a nod of his head. Barlow likewise bowed in respect.

"Helmets," he muttered into his vox channel. As one, the Deathwatch team reached up and removed their helms, the lights in their eyepieces dimming as they were disconnected from the power armor. Declan saw York's eyebrows twitch slightly. He imagined what the man was thinking as he saw the five armored giants become men before his eyes-

Kadmiel, his scalp clean of hair, his skin pale beneath scars of fire and blade, his eyes an intense blue. The double eagle of the Imperium worked in black ink upon his left temple.

Techmarine Silvine, his skin a rich shade of tan, a fringe of black hair clinging to his skull. One eye a soulful dark brown pool, the other the typical glowing red augmentic of the Iron Hands.

Torin Firemane, his tightly-bound russet hair appropriate for his appellation, his features ruddy. A nonstandard green earring pierced through the upper bend of his left ear.

Lucian, the quintessential Dark Angel with his patrician features, aquiline nose, pale blue eyes and neatly-cropped blond hair. There was an aloof, almost arrogant tilt to his head.

And Declan Tiberius himself, of course, his own brown hair thickly shot with grey, cut close to the skull. His face tan, bisected by the diagonal scar that cut across both lips and left cheekbone, passing just below one of his brown eyes.

"We are pleased to render what aid we can, General York," Declan said aloud, his voice no longer a metallic bark. The brother-sergeant nodded to both of the ranking men before turning his eyes to the last of the trio, as yet unnamed. "And this is…?"

"Adept Talmine, my aide," answered Inquisitor Veritas. The person in question – a figure or average height and build swathed in a heavy black cloak, face hidden by a smooth, mirrored mask – made acknowledgement of neither the question nor the answer.

Adept, thought Declan Tiberius, studying the perfect mirror of the being's face. An adept of what? An Inquisitorial aide could be anything, from a clerk to an assassin, or even both at once. Veritas' answer was, essentially, a non-answer. He resolved to keep an eye on the silent figure.

"So then, Inquisitor," General York asked, "what have you called us down here for?"

Inquisitor Kristania Veritas did not reply immediately. Instead she tapped a control pad at the edge of the table. Lights began to flicker upon the surface of the polished glass. "To answer your question, general," she said, "I must first explain a bit to the Deathwatch." She flashed a quick, apologetic smile. "I know much of it will be known to you, so I beg your patience."

"Of course," the man replied.

The lights in the table's surface became a steady green glow, and the holographic shape of a landmass, ghostly towers rising from the top as the image of a city took place. Declan saw Techmarine Silvine's eyebrow quirk upwards at the casual display of high technology. "Gentlemen of the Astartes," the Inquisitor said aloud, "this is Belcia Principal, the largest city on the second-largest continent of Tansetch." She smiled, briefly. "You are here."

The jest drew a chuckle from several mouths as the Deathwatch team crowded around the display table, towering over the quartet of mortals. Veritas placed the tips of her index fingers upon the tabletop and drew them closer together. The holographic image reacted to the motion by shrinking in size, new formations of land appearing at the edges as the city grew rapidly smaller, as if observed by a man aboard a ship ascending towards orbit. Before long, Belcia Principal had dwindled to a mere blot on the landscape, surrounded by mountains, forest, and several large rivers. Veritas set the index finger of her left hand to the tabletop and drew it right, shifting the birds-eye view to one side until another dark blot of human creation appeared. "This," she said, "is Belcia Secundus, one hundred and seventy-five kilometers to the southwest of Belcia Principal. It was one of the cities hardest-hit by the ork invasion and was evacuated five weeks ago."

The woman zoomed the image in, showing the Deathwatch marines another skyline of great towers and grandiose edifices of man. She brought the center of the image down upon what, to Declan's eye, was the east side of the city, showing them a particular pyramidal structure, roughly two hundred stories high if he gauged right.

"This," the woman explained, "is Inquisitorial Fortress Tansetch. Until the invasion seven weeks ago, it acted as a sub-sector command and co-ordination post for the Holy Orders. When the orks invaded, the fortress held out for approximately twenty-seven hours before it was evacuated."

She looked up. "General, Captain, from this point on what I am about to tell you is top secret. You will speak of this to no one."

"Very well, Madam Inquisitor," General York said.

"Of course, Madam Inquisitor," Captain Barlow echoed in a soft voice.

Kristania Veritas nodded slightly. "When the orks' invasion erupted from the warp and laid siege to Tansetch, they caught me on the ground in the midst of an operation. Worse, I was in Belcia Principal at the time and thus unable to retrieve something very important that had been temporarily secured at the fortress for safekeeping."

The woman looked up at the Deathwatch team. Declan belatedly realized that she still wore her glare-shades, masking her eyes from the rest of them. "Gentlemen," she said in a grave tone. "Beneath Fortress Tansetch is something I need you to retrieve. Its designation is AXT-one-one-oh-seven."

bad author leaving us with such a cliff hanger

lol. Can you imagine the hilarity if a gamemaster decides to end the session right at that cliff-hanger?

PainRack wrote:lol. Can you imagine the hilarity if a gamemaster decides to end the session right at that cliff-hanger?

Fortunately this isn't our game. It's a prequel. That would be pretty painful.

Not much of a cliffhanger, really, since that designation means absolutely nothing to the reader.