Eclipsis - IC

[Hechman]

“Fraggin’ hell an’ a half!” growled Gerald as he felt the shrieking in his head. He fired the revolver until it clacked dry; Gerald’s bullets joined the bolts fired by other Guards after the freak-thing. While he might be a damned medicae with his ‘Beloved’, and if he were being genuinely honest, Gerald would be the first to acknowledge his small arms marksmanship was less than stellar. Rather certain that he hadn’t hit anyone friendly, and out of ammunition, Gerald shared a bemused shrug and look with other soldiers near to him. The unspoken consensus was that this was one reamed situation.

Then the deck pitched violently as the loss of gravity bludgeoned the surviving Guards. Shouts of dismay and panic multiplied again at this chain of events, and more than a few las bolts discharged as men and women suddenly hit the deck. Gerald had managed to remain on his feet as the hull whirled for one horribly awful moment. It felt like he’d gone from sober to hammered and back again within half a heartbeat. He’d lost visual contact with his squad in the chaos of the dark. That’s when Gerald heard the new vox message breach the noise... and the ominous squeal of metal on metal.

“Warning. Emergency lockdown protocols engaged.”

“Holy Emperor damn it!” howled Gerald as he immediately began to sprint towards the closing bulkhead. His arms and legs hammered like pistons as he forced himself to move against the oppressive upward effort. In his mind Gerald was on Gian-Kim, instead of the Governor Seydlitz, on the spiral ramp of the Gate of Daraka. Back then downward had been the direction to flee for your life. The aftershocks from the other collapsed tower still lingered while the dust plume rose. The platoon’s shouts and cries, amplified by the cavernous roof above, sounded hauntingly like Second Company as they died to a man.

“Warning. Emergency lockdown protocols engaged.”

Ahead of him, so achingly close to the descending door, a grenadier lost his fight against gravity with a surprised bark. The man’s armored bulk bowled over and dragged away two screaming Guards while sending another pin wheeling into his chest. Gerald swore as he wrapped his arms around the falling woman’s waist as he felt himself start to turn and slide. With one last burst of effort Gerald chopped his legs and hurled the two of them forward. For a moment Gerald was certain they didn’t make across the threshold… until gravity, along with Privates Corbec and Martos, smashed into him in the most reassuring type of way.

“Oof. I feel like hammered sh...” Gerald started, his voice constrained by the three bodies on top of him, before he noted the surroundings. Above the tangled pile soldiers the former man-mountain of a sergeant was standing off against the redheaded spitfire of a sergeant. Gerald grunted as he caught an errant knee in the side before he managed to speak again. “…It really the fraggin’ time to be doin’ this, sirs?”

[Lord General Armstrong]

Running up the tilted deck felt like trying to run up an escalator that was moving in the opposite direction. The grenadiers' heavier armour hindered their movement slightly compared to the rest of the company, but Klemens sprinted ahead alongside some men from First and Second squads. Ferentinus tilting his head around the mustering hall, displacing the thoughts and screams of the Guardsmen around him. Clearing his throat, all he could do for the moment was pant, the Carapace not serving to help him now. "Come on go! Go! Everyone out now!" He managed to scream but probably being drowned out by the atrocious background noise.

As he broke the door threshold, that very moment he broke it, his weight shifted and with his continued momentum, the Corporal quickly finding himself meeting the opposing wall ... violently. Using his shoulder pad to soften the blow and falling back against it. Murmuring a low Ow and a litany to the Emperor that he was for now safe at least. Catching his breath as he sat against the wall, reaching behind him as he unslung his lasrifle over his shoulder tracing his rifle lamp across the walls. His gaze parting from his aim as he looked down the hall, two running figures catching his eye. One was a dark-skinned ship's armsman, or rather armswoman, while the other was a face Klemens had never expected to see. Ex-sergeant Tychus Fenix.

With a grunt and reluctance, he pushed his back against the wall kicking his legs in protest as he raised to his feet. Lasrifle in hand, pressing against his shoulder, it's torch shinning brightly into the duos faces. "What the frak is he doing out! That man is a killer and a traitor to the Imperium! Does he seek redemption, if so I can provide that as such!" He yelled, Ferentinus's finger tensing upon the trigger, though his eyes darted back to the door. His action hidden behind his visor, "Do you pardon this man?" Klemens questioned as he looked to the Armsmen, his concern quickly shifting over to the men still trying to escape. Such trivial matters soon leaving his mind, "Just give me a hand!"

The Corporal sliding against the halls wall, placing a hand inside. "Grab it! Move it for frak sake, crawl if you have too!"

[FarseerMatt]

The woman Gerald had saved turned out to be Fitz. He recognised her pointed features and blonde hair as they tumbled through the doorway.

"Thanks Gerry." she panted as they pulled themselves free of the tangle. Martos, of course, was cursing fluently, and put her knee into Gerald's side to make the point as she wriggled out from underneath him.

"Oof." said Gerald, "I feel like hammered sh-"

He broke off as he noted the surroundings.

"It really the fraggin' time to be doin' this, sirs?"

Armsman Kerrigan clearly didn't know what to say or do - she didn't want anybody getting shot, and she was afraid that to raise her shotgun against the hair-trigger sergeant Mainwering would be to instigate a bloodbath. Her wide eyes flicked worriedly from Kylara to Fenix, and back again.

"What the frak is he doing out!?" shouted a Triarius in intimidatingly heavy armour, "That man is a killer and a traitor to the Imperium! Does he seek redemption? If so I can provide that as such! Do you pardon this man?"

Kerrigan winced as the grenadier's helmet snapped round towards her. "I..."

"Just give me a hand!"

The direct order snapped her out of her indecision, and hoping that the sergeant with the multi-las wouldn't object she ran forward to help.

"Tychus?" Pilgrim said in surprise as he caught sight of Fenix. He had snapped round when he heard Klemens shout. For a second his gruff facade softened and he looked like he was fighting an urge to get up and embrace the man, but it vanished as he turned back to the job of helping the Triarii who were still fighting to get out of the briefing hall.

"They let you go?" he said instead as he, Klemens and Kerrigan helped pull Nyl and Lehner over the threshold. Kreuzmann scrambled over next as the gap between the descending bulkhead and the floor shrank to a mere twelve inches.

"Come on, Rebecca!" Pilgrim shouted at sergeant Barrack, their mortar squad leader. None of the sergeant's cheerful humour was in evidence as she scrambled frantically towards the door, tearing her nails on the edges of the floor tiles in an attempt to get purchase. Other guardsmen behind her were doing the same, but they were too far away for the emergency floor lights to illuminate their faces. Pilgrim couldn't tell who they were, but he knew they were too far away to make it. He focussed his attention on the one Triarius he could still help.

"You can do it!" he barked, "Fokking move!"

Sergeant Barrack was still clawing her way towards him as the gap below the door shrank away to nothing. Pilgrim kept his hand held out until the closing bulkhead forced him to pull it back. It thunked closed with a dull finality.

[Felwether]

Vincent lay on his back, paralysed and breathless, staring blankly at the ceiling. His carbine lay across his chest but his arms were at his side, limp and lifeless. The preceding moments were a blur, that thing, the orb, was like nothing he had seen before. He looked right at it and simply blacked out. Snippets came back to him, the piercing lights of the lamp packs, the snap of lasfire, the screams of private Owyn and trooper Vaz as they were shredded by an inky black claw. Vincent stood stupefied as the briefing gallery erupted into shadow-wreathed chaos.

Sergeant Varro had grabbed him by his webbing and hauled him towards the descending bulkhead as the deck of the Governor Seydlitz began to inexplicably pitch and lurch from side to side, throwing many of the surviving members of Third Section from their feet. Vincent remembered being literally dragged up the steepening incline, finding himself unable to do anything but watch in horror as more and more men and women tumbled into the darkness.

An elbow to the side of the head stirred Vincent from his stupor and he panicked as the press of bodies became closer and ever-more uncomfortable, thinking himself trapped, he fought to break Varro's grip, and succeeded, hooking his fingers into the deck grating and pulling himself past the Sergeant without a second thought. The wailing of the klaxons and the desperate cries of his fellow Triarii were deafening but Vincent heard nothing, he was in a world of his own and he simply kept climbing, scrambling over those in his way in a fevered attempt to escape. He felt a weight on his leg and looked down, in the half-light he could make out the form of Sergeant Varro clinging to his boot, crying out wordlessly for help. Vincent kicked him in the face and until he stopped and didn't even pause to watch him plummet into the darkness.

The bulkhead thumped closed and Private Nyl rolled onto his side, searing pain lancing through his brain as he recollected his actions.

The word "No." crept quietly from his lips and he vomited on the deck.

[Lord General Armstrong]

"... Sweet Emperor." Klemens muttered under his breath as he shook his head and slumped himself back against the wall. Activating his Vox Unit and flipping his Micro beads activation toggle. "This is Corporal Ferentinus Klemens, to all those who have been sealed behind the blastdoor and trapped in the mustering hall. I am sorry, truly sorry may the Emperor and the mighty Imperator guide your hands." He finished his voice full of sorrow and regret, though as always slightly muffled and hidden thanks to his Rebreather.

Arching his head to the rest of the group assembled before him, he deactivated his Micro bead before speaking up. "Is everyone here okay?" He questioned in concern, as the Corporal raised himself back to his feet. Before snapping his attention over to Pilgrim. "Colour Sergeant sir, orders? What do we do?"

Ferentinus stood nervously, his fingers tapping the lasguns undergrip, "How do we fight these things? I am certain I scored a few dozen frakking hits on it. I saw Miller ... Emperors mercy, she's trapped ... the rest of my squad ... this is it? Out of the entire platoon ... Warp damnation, the lamps ... they avoid the illuminations." His hand dropping from his undergrip and wiping across his face plate. "Miller hurt it ... her torch burnt a part of it away. We need flamers, melta's, flares, blind grenades, lumbglobes ... anything. I could be wrong but stick to the light ... we'll be safe in the light!"

[Hechman]

"Thanks Gerry."

“Good to be seein’ you, Fitz.” Gerald managed while nodding wearily in acknowledgement. Rising onto his feet, and rubbing his kneed side, Gerald looked over in time to see the door slam shut. Even a quick glance was enough to tell him that most of the platoon was still trapped in the briefing room. Gerald stared forward in mute stupefaction until he heard Corporal Klemens warbling by the door into his vox system.

"This is Corporal Ferentinus Klemens, to all those who have been sealed behind the blastdoor and trapped in the mustering hall. I am sorry, truly sorry may the Emperor and the mighty Imperator guide your hands."

“Shut up, you little frak!” Gerald snarled viciously at the slumped grenadier as he stomped forward, past First and the recumbent Nyl, to stand near the sealed bulkhead, “Ain’t nobody in there givin’ a fraggin’ heavin’ heap of grox gak about your damned truly sorries! They wanna feckin’ hear we’re tearin’ the damned door off its bloody fokkin’ track to get at ‘em!”

“Speakin’ of that, m’dear,” said Gerald to the female rating as most of the anger fled from his voice as quickly as it entered, “Where’d be the nearest arms locker? What’d be in there fer blowin’ through somethin’ like this damned door? Quick-like now, lass.”

[FarseerMatt]

"Is everyone here okay?" Klemens questioned in concern, raising himself back to his feet after Gerald's venomous rebuke. He snapped his attention over to Pilgrim. "Colour Sergeant sir, orders? What do we do?"

"You still got a line to sergeant Miller?" Pilgrim answered quickly. Klemens nodded. "What's the frequency? I need her and the other sergeants to keep the company calm until we can get them out of there."

After Klemens told him, the colour sergeant pulled the vox caster from his webbing. No sooner had he switched it on though, then the channel was flooded with a high-pitched screaming that made Pilgrim flinch and hold the caster further away from his ear. He adjusted the frequency, but it only seemed to make the screaming worse. And then voices began to drift in and out over the relentless shrieking.

"Die, you warp-spawned frak! - Tech...priests... - No...it'll never be over! - Bastian? Where's Bastian!? - Fokking bugs! Aargh, get them off me!"

Pilgrim immediately snapped the vox caster off, but not before everyone in the corridor had heard the insane whirlpool of shouts and pleas.

"God-Emperor!" said Corbec, his usually upbeat attitude draining away, "Did that come from in there?"

He glanced nervously at the bulkhead door, which was thick enough to deaden even the loudest screaming that might have come from inside.

"Did I hear them say Bastian's name?" added Kreuzmann, looking over at DuGrae, second squad's point man.

"No." said Pilgrim firmly, "It's the vox on the blink. I've heard it can happen when you're in...well..." He waved a hand to suggest the Warp through which their ship was plummeting headlong. "Those sounds could have come from anywhere, or nowhere. Probably best to ignore them."

"This is fokked up..." Kreuzmann muttered under his breath.

Pilgrim turned, and spotted the young Vincent retching on the floor. "Someone see to Nyl."

“Speakin’ of that, m’dear,” said Gerald to the female rating, most of the anger fleeing from his voice as quickly as it entered, “Where’d be the nearest arms locker? What’d be in there fer blowin’ through somethin’ like this damned door? Quick-like now, lass.”

Kerrigan started slightly as the soldier addressed her, but was put at least partially at ease by his soft tone.

"Not far." she said, "There's a guard post further along the deck near the astropath's quarters, for obvious reasons. You might find some more melta flasks there, maybe enough to burn through this bulkhead."

"What about that one?" put in Bastian DuGrae, calm and collected as usual. If the welter of voices through Pilgrim's vox had affected him, he didn't show it as he pointed to a locker on the wall near them.

Kerrigan shook her head. "That'll just be emergency rebreathers and mag-clamps. Maybe some spare lamp-packs, perhaps a medikit."

The Triarii, of course, already had their own torches, rebreather masks and medikits on their webbing. DuGrae merely nodded his understanding and fell quiet again.

Ferentinus stood nervously, his fingers tapping the lasguns undergrip, "How do we fight these things? I am certain I scored a few dozen frakking hits on it. I saw Miller ... Emperors mercy, she's trapped ... the rest of my squad ... this is it? Out of the entire platoon ... Warp damnation, the lamps ... they avoid the illuminations." His hand dropping from his undergrip and wiping across his face plate. "Miller hurt it ... her torch burnt a part of it away. We need flamers, melta's, flares, blind grenades, lumoglobes ... anything. I could be wrong but stick to the light ... we'll be safe in the light!"

"Alright corporal, calm down." said Pilgrim firmly, putting a hand on the grenadier's shoulder. "I saw First squad send that thing running with its tail between its legs."

"Fokking right we did!" snarled Martos as she shouldered her lasgun and reached under her helmet to brush her chocolate-brown hair out of her eyes.

"So," Pilgrim went on, glancing sharply at Martos, "We know that whatever it is, at least we can stop it. That said, you're probably right - we'll see what weapons we can find in the guard post, and maybe someone who can tell us what the fok just happened."

"Hey, corp." Fitz said to Lehner, tapping the man's shoulder pad to get his attention. She pointed towards the other end of the corridor, which like the briefing hall they had narrowly avoided becoming trapped in was dimly lit at floor level by the emergency lights. Marking the end of the corridor was an arch that protruded from the wall, holding the runners for another emergency bulkhead. That bulkhead, unlike the one behind them was conspicuously open. "Why didn't that one close too?"

++++++

The young adept could hear the generatoria in the decks below thrumming through the floor as he walked. The heartbeat of their great ship. The junior adept's name was Titus Nesca, originally from Konor in the Ultramar sector, and under his ritual robe he wore the thick protective suit of an enginarium worker. The suit had its own temperature regulation system, but he still felt warm as he crossed the gallery.

The room around him was large, but not among the biggest on the Governor Seydlitz. Along the walls blank-eyed servitors manned consoles with a baffling array of levers and dials, while the raised central platform was dominated by information screens and astrometry hololiths.

The secondary navigation gallery. A strange choice perhaps for their new command centre, but the magos in command had his reasons. One would have expected the chief enginseer to be seated at one of the thrones around the great holosphere that visualised the input from the ship's warp sensors, but a trio of subordinate magi currently occupied those positions. One of them hailed Nesca as he passed.

"Have there been any further communications from adept Solisto?" she asked him. Her voice was rendered androgynous by the vox grille that covered her mouth like a respirator.

"She has not yet located the target." Nesca reported. He would have injected a note of apology into the vocalisation, but the junior magos would not have considered it relevant either way. As he had predicted, she merely nodded acknowledgement. "Is the senior magos still working?"

"He is."

Nesca bowed to the unmoving magi and crossed over to the backup dirigarium station, where senior magos Osmar Sariel stood hunched over his work. He was rerouting the helm control panel into what looked like a jury-rigged Navigator's throne. He did not turn around from his work as the adept approached. This was fairly typical of the magos; indeed, Nesca would have been more worried if the magos had turned to acknowledge him, because that would suggest that he was concerned or displeased enough to consider it more important than his current task.

"I have good news and bad news, honoured magos." he said, smoothing the front of his ceremonial robe - red, like all followers of the Mechanicus in honour of their homeworld, and edged with the crenellated white stripe of the sacred cog.

"The good news?" magos Sariel answered simply. The magos was generally succinct with his words. His voice, though still human, was as cracked and dry as old parchment, suggesting that it wouldn't be long before his larynx required augmetic replacement.

"We have stabilised the Gellar field at 50% efficiency, although we cannot guarantee that operation for more than two standard hours."

"That will have to suffice. And the bad news?"

"To do so we will need to draw power from life support in three, possibly four decks. Air should not be a problem, but with the arti-grav offline personnel in the affected decks will not survive the g-forces of the translation."

"Explain further."

The request temporarily threw the adept. "Magos?"

"Explain how the previous statement constitutes bad news."

"Magos, the crew..." Adept Nesca tailed off as the magos turned round towards him. Sariel's expression remained the same flat mask as ever, but the adept knew he must have troubled him to make him pause in his work. He hoped that it was concern and not ire that he had provoked in the magos, but of course there was no way of telling.

"The crew are not part of the primary objective." the magos said tonelessly. "In fact, a failure of life support in the mustering decks of the Triarii would cause the chances of a favourable outcome to increase."

"A..." Nesca stuttered, cursing the human failing. He fought past the intimidating presence of the magos and forced his vocal chords to obey. "A favourable outcome, magos?"

"They all die." the magos clarified simply, and turned back to his work.

++++++

"It's good to have you back with us, Tychus." Pilgrim was saying to Fenix as the group prepared to move out. "You're with me and Ky. If anything happens to me, she's in charge. And Ky," he shot a significant look at his red-headed ASL, "Whatever Tychus is doing out, we're better with him than without him. Clear?"

The lights were still dim, and so the separated group of Triarii advanced cautiously, with Corbec and Martos on point and Lehner close behind with his meltagun. Gerald took up rearguard, covering the corridor behind them with his grenade launcher. Corbec and Martos paused as they reached the shadow-splashed archway, checking left and right up the next corridor. There was no sign of the mysterious orb that had menaced them in the muster hall, and the bulkhead door showed no sign of crashing down on their heads, and so after a moment the two stepped through.

And immediately reeled backwards, nearly knocking Lehner to the ground.

"Fok!" Martos swore, her brown eyes wide with shock.

"You alright Kenda?" said Corbec, a note of genuine concern in his voice as he caught himself and used an arm to steady Martos.

"What happpened?" snapped Pilgrim.

"The Emperor-damn arti-grav again."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Fok knows, but as soon as you step through that arch the floor turns vertical!"

"They must have failed completely." said Kerrigan, the only one who had been on a starship long enough to know something about the various systems' effects, if not exactly how they worked, "We're heading towards the bow, so if the arti-grav and compensators aren't working then the only force acting will be the engines pushing us back towards the stern."

"Wouldn't that mean we're accelerating though?" asked Fitz, thinking back to hazy memories of Scholem Junior physics.

"You girls are in the wrong job." Corbec said wryly, with a smile that furrowed the Ork claw scars near his hairline, "Should've been tech priests."

"Shut up, Rueben." Fitz snapped, suppressing a shudder as she thought of the cloaked and cowled figures who shuffled about the Seydlitz, muttering arcane words as they ran their spidery augmetic hands over the ship's maintenance ports. "The point is, why would they be speeding us up?"

"Well, the vox casters were just shouting about some sort of malfunction, maybe they're making a run for the nearest port?"

"All very interesting, Triarii." colour sergeant Pilgrim interrupted curtly, "But not relevant to getting the rest of our company out or getting up that corridor."

"So..." DuGrae said from behind them, "Should we get the mag clamps from that other locker back there, then?"

[Lord General Armstrong]

"Die, you warp-spawned frak! - Tech...priests... - No...it'll never be over! - Bastian? Where's Bastian!? - Fokking bugs! Aargh, get them off me!"

Ferentinus clenched his teeth, the sound, the pleas ... the mention of those Red Robed freaks, those computerized altered frakkers. He couldn't help but close his eyes and pray that he never had to meet one, his act hidden behind his visor. The Corporal reaching a hand out, grasping the transceiver from the Colour Sergeant and fixing the Vox-Caster back on his webbing. The constant noise running through his ears, the Vox-Caster had to be switched of otherwise Klemens would have been driven mad ... the voices in the back of his head ... the screams, he didn't even want to imagine.

"That'll just be emergency rebreathers and mag-clamps. Maybe some spare lamp-packs, perhaps a medikit."

"In the dark when the shadow's threaten, the Emperor is with us, in spirit and in fact." Klemens couldn't help muttering under his breath, his hands gripping his rifle like a man holding on for dear life, which upon this moment could have been quite the reality. He stood listening to the rest of the assembled team converse, at the moment his mind only concentrating on those mentioned lamp-packs. Oh, he was going to light himself up like a bust of the Emperor on Martyrs' day or the day of the feast of the Emperor's Ascension. Nodding to the affirmative and dropping his hand from his Lasguns undergrip, he stepped forward as the Triarii's attention was drawn to the undropped bulkhead door. His free hand grabbing the lockers latch and pulling it open, he gave the storage unit a quick glance over where he contemplated grabbing another Rebreather in the case his first was compromised or it's filters required changing, though ultimately deciding against it. Crouching down he began scooping up the additional torches clamping one on both shoulders complimenting his helmet and rifle lamp nicely, as for the others merely placed upon his webbing.

* * * * *

"So..." DuGrae said from behind them, "Should we get the mag clamps from that other locker back there, then?"

"Agreed." Replied the good Corporal as he lowered his Lasrifle to his side and rose a hand to wipe across his Rebreather Dome, "I'll be up for the brief job, could use the run, the recycled air, the bright lights everything a man could ask for." He tried to joke, take his mind off things. He turned on the spot, running back down to the locker, wrenching the door out and beginning to pile the Mag-camps in his hand. Awkwardly standing back up and swaying as he did, in an attempt to keep his balance and stop himself from dropping the equipment less he anger the machines spirit.

"So how do these work?" He questioned, when he arrived back to his fellow Triarii, cradling the assorted clamps in hand.

[FarseerMatt]

"So how do these work?" he questioned when he arrived back with his fellow Triarii, cradling the assorted clamps in hand.

"Like this." said Kerrigan, taking one in each hand. Each was a thick disc with a protruding grip, apparently made of metal but surpringly lightweight. "Switch on the outer rim activates the magnet." she said, and did so before pressing one of the clamps against the smooth wall where it stuck fast. "Hold on to the grip and keep your thumb on the button here - pressing it down temporarily disables the magnet so you can move it." She demonstrated again. "Now they're more for getting leverage on jammed bulkheads or moving around in zero-gee than for hand-over-hand climbing, but they'll have to do. I hope you've all got good upper-body strength."

"This is the Imperial Guard you're talking to." Pilgrim interjected gruffly. "Triarii! Two by two, move it!"

"Aye, Colour." said Fitz, lining up at the front beside Lehner.

"Best to just throw yourself forward at the floor." Corbec offered as he slipped his hands into two of the clamps and took up position beside Martos, "Otherwise the change in gravity just foks with your head and makes you fall back."

"Great." muttered Kreuzmann from the back of the line.

[Hechman]

"Not far." she said, "There's a guard post further along the deck near the astropath's quarters, for obvious reasons. You might find some more melta flasks there, maybe enough to burn through this bulkhead."

“Not keen on askin’ the Martians fer help if the cupboard’s bare.” Gerald said with a grimace, his thoughts drawn back to the chaotic scramble of voices that rang out from the vox, “So here’s to hopin’ your Navy ain’t skimpin’ on ordinance, m’dear.”

Those garbled words had rattled his nerves more than that thing that leapt from shadow to shadow. Whatever it was could apparently be hurt, as First had so ably demonstrated, and hopefully that meant killed. Violence was a tangible act that Gerald O’Rourke knew, understood, and could deal with. Abstract concepts, like warp travel and techno-sorcery, were well beyond his interest or ability to productively deal with. Gerald clenched his teeth and forced himself to walk away when Klemens started speaking again. One Triarii was already on charges for beating a man of superior rank to death, with his bare hands, and he didn’t yet feel like being the second. While he lumbered away from his immediate source of aggravation, and in dire need of a distraction, Gerald spotted the downed Private and redirected himself.

“Tastes as good comin’ back up as it did goin’ down, eh? No matter, lad. Just be makin’ sure you’re emptied out now.” Gerald commented as he halted and leaned over the prone Nyl. After two hearty thwacks on the back, and with an understanding smile, Gerald stood and offered a hand to the youngster. “Some poor swabbie is goin’ to be cursin’ you somethin’ fierce. Up you get though, boyo. Can’t have Sergeant Ferro hearin’ you’d been goldbrickin’ on the job once we get our lads an’ lasses out.”

***

Gerald exchanged amused and bemused looks with Corbec and Martos as they watched Klemens festoon himself with lamp-packs. In case the Corporal was onto something, as odd as it looked, Gerald reached into the locker and efficiently plundered like only an ex-Praetorian squaddie could. With a heavy thump Gerald slipped off his kitbag and began to root around in it. Gerald recovered a roll of adhesive tape and used it to secure one lamp-pack onto the side of his helmet and another along the underside of ‘Beloved’. Spare battery cells were stowed in random fatigue pockets, webbing pouches, and even in the disheveled mess that had become his kitbag. The distinct noise made by his secondary canteen being struck by an errant energy cell made Gerald pause. After a few moments of hesitation the canteen was surreptitiously pocketed while the others waited or pillaged the locker.

“Ahoy, Sailor.” Gerald called out to the rating as he nonchalantly squared away his kit, “Seein’ as fer the moment you’re joinin’ the Imperial Guard; may glory be upon it forever, you’d best be kittin’ yourself out, lass. No Guards like sharin’ their medkit or rebreather fer a damned good reason.”

***

"This is the Imperial Guard you're talking to." Pilgrim interjected gruffly. "Triarii! Two by two, move it!"

"Best to just throw yourself forward at the floor." Corbec offered from somewhere towards the front of the column, undoubtedly with Martos at his side, "Otherwise the change in gravity just foks with your head and makes you fall back."

“Throwin’ yourself forward at the floor with a partner?” Gerald projected his amused voice forward, the magnetic clamps clutched expectantly in his fists, as the crowd divided themselves and prepared to make their jumps, “So nothin’ that you’d have any practical experience in doin’, eh Benny-boy?”

[FarseerMatt]

"Not far." she said, "There's a guard post further along the deck near the astropath's quarters, for obvious reasons. You might find some more melta flasks there, maybe enough to burn through this bulkhead."

“Not keen on askin’ the Martians fer help if the cupboard’s bare.” Gerald said with a grimace, his thoughts drawn back to the chaotic scramble of voices that rang out from the vox, “So here’s to hopin’ your Navy ain’t skimpin’ on ordinance, m’dear.”

Those garbled words had rattled his nerves more than that thing that leapt from shadow to shadow. Whatever it was could apparently be hurt, as First had so ably demonstrated, and hopefully that meant killed. Violence was a tangible act that Gerald O’Rourke knew, understood, and could deal with. Abstract concepts, like warp travel and techno-sorcery, were well beyond his interest or ability to productively deal with. Gerald clenched his teeth and forced himself to walk away when Klemens started speaking again. One Triarii was already on charges for beating a man of superior rank to death, with his bare hands, and he didn’t yet feel like being the second. While he lumbered away from his immediate source of aggravation, and in dire need of a distraction, Gerald spotted the downed Private and redirected himself.

“Tastes as good comin’ back up as it did goin’ down, eh? No matter, lad. Just be makin’ sure you’re emptied out now.” Gerald commented as he halted and leaned over the prone Nyl. After two hearty thwacks on the back, and with an understanding smile, Gerald stood and offered a hand to the youngster. “Some poor swabbie is goin’ to be cursin’ you somethin’ fierce. Up you get though, boyo. Can’t have Sergeant Ferro hearin’ you’d been goldbrickin’ on the job once we get our lads an’ lasses out.”

++++++

Gerald exchanged amused and bemused looks with Corbec and Martos as they watched Klemens festoon himself with lamp-packs. In case the Corporal was onto something, as odd as it looked, Gerald reached into the locker and efficiently plundered like only an ex-Praetorian squaddie could. With a heavy thump Gerald slipped off his kitbag and began to root around in it. Gerald recovered a roll of adhesive tape and used it to secure one lamp-pack onto the side of his helmet and another along the underside of ‘Beloved’. Spare battery cells were stowed in random fatigue pockets, webbing pouches, and even in the disheveled mess that had become his kitbag. The distinct noise made by his secondary canteen being struck by an errant energy cell made Gerald pause. After a few moments of hesitation the canteen was surreptitiously pocketed while the others waited or pillaged the locker.

“Ahoy, Sailor.” Gerald called out to the armswoman as he nonchalantly squared away his kit. “Seein’ as fer the moment you’re joinin’ the Imperial Guard; may glory be upon it forever, you’d best be kittin’ yourself out, lass. No Guards like sharin’ their medkit or rebreather fer a damned good reason.”

"We all already carry rebreathers." Kerrigan said uncertainly, tapping the pack that hung from her right hip, "Medkit couldn't hurt though, I suppose..."

Private Kreuzmann obligingly threw her one of the small packages from the locker, and she caught it before stowing it away in her overalls.

++++++

"This is the Imperial Guard you're talking to." Pilgrim interjected gruffly. "Triarii! Two by two, move it!"

"Best to just throw yourself forward at the floor." Corbec offered from somewhere towards the front of the column, undoubtedly with Martos at his side, "Otherwise the change in gravity just foks with your head and makes you fall back."

“Throwin’ yourself forward at the floor with a partner?” Gerald projected his amused voice forward, the magnetic clamps clutched expectantly in his fists as the crowd divided themselves and prepared to make their jumps, “So nothin’ that you’d have any practical experience in doin’, eh Benny-boy?”

Corbec laughed it off, but Martos shot him an extremely warning look while colour sergeant Pilgrim's back was turned. Corbec slapped her shoulder to bring her back facing forwards, and the two jumped. They banged against the metal deck and seemed to slide backwards slightly before using their upper body strength to haul themselves forward. To the soldiers behind it looked bizarre - similar to looking up at someone climbing a vertical wall, but the shifted gravity made it seem as if Corbec and Martos were floating a few centimetres above the floor as they dragged themselves forward. Lehner and Fitz were next, Fitz swearing involuntarily at the sudden change in her sense of balance, and by twos the others began jumping towards the floor to begin the laborious 20-metre "climb" to the next stretch of corridor. By the time the last of the Triarii were on the floor, Corbec and Martos had almost reached the archway which marked the next section. As they crossed it Martos slipped backwards, but then let out a laugh of relief.

"Hey guys! The gravity in the next hall's back to normal!"

"Thank fok." said Corbec as he got to his feet, dropped the mag-clamps, and began shaking out his strained arm muscles. "Really didn't want to have to climb my way to the armoury."

Martos smiled at him sweetly. "What's the matter, Rueben? Can't handle a bit of cardio?"

The two Guardsmen exchanged playful punches.

"Frag me." Martos commented as she looked back down the hall at the other Triarii still struggling and cursing their way along the 'floor', "This ****'s messing with my head."

They stooped to begin pulling their comrades over the door threshold, warning them about the grav-plates on the other side being active again. As the group at the top began to increase, they registered a strange sound drifting from the corridor ahead. It was faint, but still loud enough to echo eerily between the dark steel walls. It sounded like someone was crying.

"Did you hear that?" Corbec said, immediately leaving Fitz and Lehner to help themselves as he unslung his lasgun.

"Fok." Martos breathed as she followed suit, her eyes flicking between her fellow Guardsmen and the corridor, with its dim floor-level lighting stretching away into the distance.

++++++

Bringing up the rear, Varro Kreuzmann paused to allow the slightly slower people above him to pull ahead to a safe distance. His slung lasgun and the various supplies he carried were not overly heavy, but they did make the climb awkward. Hanging by his muscular arms, he turned for a second to look over his shoulder. His head had adjusted to the 90-degree shift in his centre of gravity now, and as far as he was concerned he was looking down - the corridor forming a deep pit broken by the protruding arch of a bulkhead doorway, which then continued down for another 20 metres before ending in the solid blast door that had cut off the briefing gallery. It was a weird optical illusion. Kreuzmann cursed under his breath. He didn't have a particular problem with heights, but he didn't like the idea of the 30-metre "drop" below him.

He turned back to tell the Triarii above him to get a fokking move on, but the sight of something black clinging to the back of his left hand caused the complaint to die in his throat. It looked like a large beetle, with segmented feelers and a shiny carapace. He instinctively jerked his arm, shaking it off. He didn't mind heights, but he absolutely hated bugs. Where the hell had that thing come from? The damn cleaning servitors were obviously doing a crap job of keeping the ship clean. He looked up, and was just about to depress the button on one mag-clamp to allow him to climb higher when he saw three more of the beetles skittering from the louvred slats of a circulation vent above and to his left. The damn things were weaving directly towards him, apparently having no trouble in keeping their spindly legs gripped to the vertical surface of the floor.

Kreuzmann swore aloud, and instead of climbing upward he instinctively shifted his mag-clamps a metre to the right, trying to put distance between himself and the bugs. They crawled after him relentlessly, now spilling from the vent in a long ribbon of black carapaces. Kreuzmann swore again, looking for a way out, and saw something grey and glossy winding its way up his fatigue sleeve, dozens of legs rippling in a sinuous wave motion as it slithered up towards his face. Kreuzmann actually let go of one of his mag-clamps and tried to beat the creature off, sending it tumbling down the vertical shaft of the corridor. It twisted and writhed as it fell. Kreuzmann looked back up to see that the beetle things had caught up with him, and were swarming all over his abandoned mag-clamp. He swore yet again, this time much louder.

"What's up Varro?" said DuGrae from above him, twisting awkwardly around his slung lasgun, and his eyes widened as he saw his fellow Triarii dangling by just one hand, "Varro!"

"Fokking bugs!" Kreuzmann swore loudly. The swarm of beetles were skittering over to his remaining mag-clamp, trying to crawl up his sleeve, and a few had inexplicably found their way onto his chest and legs. "Argh! Get them off me!

He was still trying to swat the creatures from his flak armour when another one of the grey centipedes undulated down from above and sank a pair of hooked pincers into the back of his hand. With a scream Kreuzmann lost his grip on the mag-clamp and plummeted down the grav-distorted corridor, the scream abruptly cutting off as he smashed against the protruding bulkhead arch before crumpling in a messy heap beyond the doorway where the gravity returned to normal.

"Varro!" Fitz shouted from the top of the corridor. She couldn't see what had happened; all she had seen was Kreuzmann swiping madly at his armour before losing grip on his one remaining mag-clamp and falling.

"What happened?" barked Pilgrim, who was still climbing towards the normal gravity at the top of the corridor, "What happened!?"

"Varro slipped!" replied DuGrae from below him, "I think he's dead!"

[Dakkagor]

Lehner had been badly shaken by the experience with the bulkhead and the gravity decking. A tangible enemy? That he could deal with because he could kill it. But the environment suddenly being out to get him, that was new. And he didn't like it very much. Surely keeping stuff like this running was the tech priests job?

So his mood had become more and more morose and he had become less and less talkative, focusing on just following his orders. He had left people trapped in that room. Comrades, squad mates. He wasn't going to let them down if he could help it.

He continued to mutter the voidsmans prayer under his breath as he 'ascended' the deck alongside Fitz. For a second he looked over at her and felt a pang of. . something.
"Nearly there Fitz. Lets keep at it."
Fitz looked over at him as he resumed his climb in silence. If the Corporal was being encouraging, the **** had to be pretty deep.

When they cleared the 'top', Lehner unshipped his shotgun and racked the slide, moving forward in a low crouch to Corbec and Martos position.

"What did you hear?" He peered into the darkness of the corridor. His hearing had never been great since the invasion, not as bad as some veterans, but he knew it was his weakest sense. He hadn't heard a damn thing during the climb apart from themselves.

[FarseerMatt]

"Sounds like somebody crying, Corp." whispered Corbec as the plaintive sobbing continued to filter down the hallway, "Maybe we should..."

He was interrupted by a violent crash from behind them.

"Varro!" Fitz shouted.

[Lord General Armstrong]

'Upper body strength check, Imperial Guardsmen check, frak tonne of grox crap and weighted carapace dotting poor old Klemens frame, check.' The good Corporal couldn't help thinking to himself, biting his lip as he just let himself hang from the mag-clamps. "Hey, sorry for the additional weight. I suppose the vox and the carapace isn't helping our 'climb'." He whispered to his climbing partner, taking slow purpose breaths, his suspended position somewhat relaxing. Closing his eyes, he could have drifted into unconsciousness and the act would have been hidden behind his visor how glorious.

The duo trailing near the rear sat for several seconds. Ferentinus's almost lifeless hold disturbed as he heard the sounds of swatting and almost inaudible mutters. Tilting his gaze and looking below him his jaw dropped. "What in the warp are you doing? V-Varro, grab hold of your clamps." Klemens voice hushed, though affirmative, worried and distorted thanks to his faceplate. "Varro snap out of it, there's nothing there...grab your frakking clamps."

"Fokking bugs!" Kreuzmann swore loudly. The swarm of beetles were skittering over to his remaining mag-clamp, trying to crawl up his sleeve, and a few had inexplicably found their way onto his chest and legs. "Argh! Get them off me!"

Watching with wide eyes, he couldn't help but pray a silent litany under his breath. "Varro! Grab your Emperor dammed clamps!" Ferentinus began to scream at him, watching as the man dangled.

He was still trying to swat the creatures from his flak armour when another one of the grey centipedes undulated down from above and sank a pair of hooked pincers into the back of his hand. With a scream Kreuzmann lost his grip on the mag-clamp.

"Varro!" The Corporal screamed once again, as he dropped a hand from his own clamp. "Grab it you frakker, warp damnation what's wrong with you!" His hand lunging out in an futile attempt to grasp Kreuzmann's wrist. Klemens closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, as he heard the screams cease.

"We better keep moving." The Corporal suggested to his partner, bringing his hand to grasp back at the mag-clamp and hitting the activation rune. Raising a hand in front of him and slowly continuing this movement. "Emperor, our guiding light, protect your flock from whatever evil plagues your glorious vessel."

Upon hitting the threshold, his stomach turned from the restabilization of gravity, a small battle within itself as he held back in the contents of his breakfast. Breathing and seemingly hugging the deck floor, he would have kissed it, if not for his damn rebreather or the others around him. "Thank Him." He praised, as he brought himself to a stand. The crying in the distance, catching his attention.

"I don't like this." He said to no-one in particular, making sure his numerous lamp-lights were activated and his lasrifles battary pack at sufficient levels.

[Dakkagor]

"You and me both" muttered Lehner.

He turned to Klemens and nodded.

"I'll push ahead and investigate the sound. I'd like volunteer to go with me. Everyone else should cover this corridor and try to help the others climb up if possible. We can't allow ourselves to get too spread out."

He unslung his shotgun and racked the slide.

"Its probably just a crewman or ships brat. If not, we will administer the emperors justice upon it and then move on."

[Lord General Armstrong]

"Sure why the frak not." Klemens spoke up, returning the courtesy to Lehner and taking a step forward.

"After all I have the heaviest armour." Dropping his left hand from his lasrifles undergrip and clenching a fist as he tapped the carapace chestplate. Planting a foot and spinning on the spot, he gave the others a quick two fingered salute.

"Entire damned ships against us, not even gravity wants to be on our side. What's next blown out fokking gas lines where we can't fire our weapons less we ignite the air?" He pondered aloud, turning to face down the corridor lasgun pressed against his shoulder and raised. "Shall we."

[FarseerMatt]

"Its probably just a crewman or ships brat. If not, we will administer the emperors justice upon it and then move on."

"Sure why the frak not." Klemens spoke up, replying the courtesy to Lehner and taking a step forward.

Fitz tore her eyes away from Kreuzmann's unnaturally twisted body at the far end of the corridor and brought up her lasgun, “I'm with you, corp.”

“Me too.” added Corbec. Martos' attention was still on their fallen comrade. The normally mouthy private was solemn and wide-eyed, clearly spooked.

“Did you hear what he said?” she asked DuGrae as she helped him over the threshold and back into normal gravity. Still looking down she made a one-handed sign of the Aquila over her flak vest, touching either side of her collarbone to mark the twin heads and then below each shoulder for the wingtips. “Fokking bugs. Didn't the radio...?”

“No.” said Pilgrim firmly as he climbed through the doorframe and regained his feet. But he knew he was lying as he said it. It was more for the morale and sanity of his squad than anything – listening to warp-spawned whispers on a broken radio could only lead them into trouble. The colour sergeant just hoped that their more immediate problems would keep their minds off the unnerving coincidence. Not least his own.

Klemens turned to face down the corridor, lasgun pressed against his shoulder and raised. "Shall we?"

Pilgrim nodded, grateful for the snap back to their current mission. He hand-signalled to Lehner and the other volunteers. “We'll cover you. Triarii, move out.”

“Aye.” Fitz and Corbec answered softly as they took point.

++++++

The eerie weeping became louder as they advanced along the corridor. It was coming from behind a closed door alcoved into the side of the hallway. Lehner and Klemens stacked up either side of the door and glanced at each other. Corbec flattened himself against the wall, the floor-level emergency lamps underlighting his face as he nodded to them, his hand hovering over the door control. Lehner returned the nod and the door hissed open, the four Triarii bursting through the now-open doorway to sweep the room.

In contrast to the corridor outside, the room was comparatively well-lit, the back-up power to the ceiling lumoglobes still functional. They illuminated a small living quarters with a number of bunks, not unlike the ones the Triarii themselves used. The beds were disordered, as if they had been abandoned in a hurry. The metal floor of the room had been defaced with two circles hastily scrawled in chalk, which encompassed the points of two hexagrams. The triangular sections of the hexagrams were filled with high gothic script. Near one hexagram lay a body in a green robe, a young man with his hands hooked into claws against the floor. The body's thin face, formerly dark-skinned, was ash grey, mouth open and lips peeled back from bloody teeth. His eye-sockets were charred and empty, as if his eyeballs had caught fire and burned right out of his head.

Huddled in the centre of the other hexagram was the figure from whom the crying came. It was another green-robed human, its hood pulled low over its face and small hands gripping either side of its head. At the loud clattering sound of Lehner and the others barging into the room the figure abruptly stopped crying, its head snapping up towards them. The hood fell back to reveal the face of a young woman with blonde hair and pointed features, her pale cheeks streaked with tears. Her eyes darted left and right as if taking in the intruding guardsmen, but the pupils didn't contract or focus on any of them. She was blind.

“Who's there?” she stammered, huddling back from the Triarii as far as the edges of the hexagram would allow her, but she seemed unwilling or unable to leave her chalk circle.

Before Lehner or Klemens could say anything Fitz had taken a step forward, her lasgun hanging loose and forgotten in her hands.

“Liv?” she said.

Belatedly, the two corporals registered the facial similarity between the woman on the floor and their own squadmate. Despite the crying woman's unhealthily pale skin and red-rimmed eyes, her pointed nose, pale hair and blue eyes were almost identical to Fitz'.

[Lord General Armstrong]

"What in the warp?" Klemens whispered, as he fell into the room. Rifle raised and his numerous torches festooned across his frame illuminating many of the remaining shadows. Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes he began to breath heavily, his rebreather making the act sound wheezed. His hands grasping the lasguns grips and not wanting to let go.

“Liv?”

That was until he heard that single uttered word, biting down at his core and quickly finding himself biting his lower lip. His eyes opening wide and his hands slinging his lasrifle over his shoulder. 'Not again, .... not again', lunging a hand forward as Fitz took her single step and grasping at her collar. "Fitz." He whispered, pulling her back. "You are an Imperial Guardsmen, snap out of it. She has been touched by the taint of Chaos. You know what we have to do, .... don't touch her for His sake. All of our sakes." His words bittersweet, as he continued in whisper. Attempting to distract her and informing the others of what must be done.

Ferentinus's mind screamed at him, this was wrong. What had happened here? He didn't want to know, the Corporal just wanted to get out of here. Placing his hand upon her shoulder he turned the Guardswomen around, "Don't look, she is not herself. You hear me? What are you? What do we have to do?" He solemnly questioned, repeating himself and waiting for an answer, his hands holding her firm less she try to escape his hold.

Shaking his head, 'Sweet Emperor.' His entire body was shaking as he looked to Lehner. "You have the Melta gun Lehner, ...." Pausing, the Corporal never thought he would have to say this. "Purge it with holy fire."

[Dakkagor]

Lehner gritted his teeth, taking the situation in. No, something didn't add up.

"I would normally be inclined to agree. . .however."

He reholstered his shotgun and pulled out his melta. He moved over to the figure lying on the ground, checking for a pulse or breathing.

"Think Klemens. Green robes and blind? These are Astropaths. Mayhaps these are warding circles. And mayhaps the Emperor has seen fit, in his divine wisdom, to provide us a means of calling for aid. Though if this is foul sorcery or warp spawned trickery, we will enact justice, and I will not hesitate."

While he knelt at the body he turned to look at Fitz.

"Fitz, think carefully. I know they took her from you. Is this truly your sister? Is there anything only she would know?"

He had been on garrison duty at an astropathic choir station before, and it had been an enlightening, if disturbing experience. He had endeavoured to learn as much as he could about his 'charges' during the tour, but the psykana guards where more tight lipped than their charges. But he knew the signs of their passing: green robes, sightless and a knowledge of the arcane.

Fitz had lost her sister once, but perhaps the Emperor, in his infiite mercy, had seen fit to reunite the pair. He, as his humble servant, wasn't going to interfere without good reason. But a cynical part of him whispered in the back of his head that he was better safe than sorry, and that his meltagun was the only thing he could trust.

[Hechman]

Gerald stood at the bulkhead door along with Martos and assisted her in pulling DuGrae onto his feet. He couldn’t help but still look at Kreuzmann's contorted body while helping his squad mate. There had been no bugs in the air vent, the corridor, or let alone all over the Guardsman. For some reason or another Varro had just freaked out and fallen to his death. Watching the man fall to his death had been the most bizarre death he’d ever witnessed. The way he slid down the floor and crumpled…

“Did you hear what he said? Fokking bugs. Didn't the radio...?”

“Ye-” started Gerald as he looked over at Martos while Pilgrim hauled himself to his feet.

“No.”

Both Gerald and Martos exchanged doubtful looks with one another while DuGrae slowly nodded. The three of them knew that the Platoon Sergeant was lying. Everyone in the hallway had heard that distorted vox squawk. But someone could easily go deep down the sump rat’s tube if they started to think too long or too hard about the warp and its implications. Pilgrim just wanted to keep everyone on task, and Gerald wouldn’t hold that against him. Superiors lied and that was the way of the Imperial Guard. Gerald helped pull through the rest of the climbers in an effort to distract himself. He tried not to look at Varro too often while he worked, even if his eyes were drawn down in that direction.

“We'll cover you. Triarii, move out.”

“Aye.” Gerald replied after a moment as he took up his position the end of the file. He covered the group from behind with his grenade launcher and sweeps of the lamp packs. While they advanced the sobs only became louder in the almost deserted corridor. The whole while Gerald clenched his teeth and muttered under his breath enough for both him and the recently departed Varro Kreuzmann.

***

“What the cuss! Fraggin’ sailors here pulled a runner.” Gerald rumbled to the others while he scanned the corridor outside the Astropath’s chamber and spat disgustedly on the deck. “Witches ain’t to be left without watchin’. Can’t trust them freaks fer nothin’, not a damned one, an’ that’s goin’ fer double today.”

Psykers were strictly dangerous things, and they had to be guarded at all times for everyone’s safety. He did not like the idea that there might be freaks like that out and about without minders, and was in no rush to enter the chamber. The sobs had stopped once Corporal Lehner and his team entered the room. It sounded like they were talking but he couldn’t be sure with all the metal between them. Gerald clenched his ‘Beloved’ tighter as he watched and waited.

“Them ditherin’ in there ain’t helpin’ our lads and lasses.” Gerald spoke up again shortly as he spared the look to catch Pilgrim’s eye before he went back and scanned the corridor. “Shouldn’t we be takin’ what we’re needin’ and gettin’ back to the platoon, sir? After puttin’ down whatever they’re bloody talkin’ about in there, of course.”