# Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories 6: Contagion



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Here's how it works:

Each month, there will be a thread posted in the Original Works forum for that month's HOES competition. For those of you interested in entering, read the entry requirements, write a story that fits the chosen theme and post it as a reply to the competition thread by the deadline given.

Once the deadline has passed, a separate voting thread will be posted, where the readers and writers can post their votes for the top three stories. Points will be awarded (3 points for 1st, 2 for 2nd, and 1 for 3rd) for each vote cast, totaled at the closure of the voting window, and a winner will be announced. The winner will have his/her story added to the Winning HOES thread.

*Theme
*
The idea with the theme is that it should serve as the inspiration for your stories rather than a constraint. While creative thinking is most certainly encouraged, the theme should still be relevant to your finished story. The chosen theme can be applied within the WH40K, WHF, HH, and even your own completely original works (though keep in mind, this IS a Warhammer forum) but there will be no bias as to which setting is used for your story.

As far as the theme goes, please feel free with future competitions to contact me with your ideas/proposals, especially given that my creative juices may flow a bit differently than yours. All I ask is that you PM me your ideas rather than posting them into the official competition entry/voting threads to keep posts there relevant to the current competition.

*Word Count*

The official word count for each competition will be 1,000 words. There will be a 10% allowance in this limit, essentially giving you a 900-1,100 word range with which to tell your tale. This is non-negotiable. This is an Expeditious Story competition, not an Epic Story nor an Infinitesimal Story competition. If you are going to go over or under the 900-1,100 word limit, you need to rework your story. It is not fair to the other entrants if one does not abide by the rules. If you cannot, feel free to PM me with what you have and I'll give suggestions or ideas as to how to broaden or shorten your story.

Each entry must have a word count posted with it. Expect a reasonably cordial PM from me (and likely some responses in the competition thread) if you either fail to adhere to this rule. The word count can be annotated either at the beginning or ending of your story, and does not need to include your title.

Without further ado...

The theme for this month's competition is:

*Contagion*

Entries should be posted in this thread, along with any comments that the readers may want to give (and comments on stories are certainly encouraged in both the competition and voting threads!) 40K, 30K, WHF, and original universes are all permitted (please note, this excludes topics such as Halo, Star Wars, Forgotten Realms, or any other non-original and non-Warhammer settings). Keep in mind, comments are more than welcome! If you catch grammar or spelling errors, the writers are all more than free to edit their piece up until the close of the competition, and that final work will be the one considered for voting. Sharing your thoughts with the writers as they come up with their works is a great way to help us, as a FanFiction community, grow as a whole.

The deadline for entries is Midnight US Eastern Standard Time (-5.00 hours for you UK folks)*Saturday, 25 June 2011*. Voting will be held from *26 June - 2 July.*

If you have any questions, feel free to either PM me or ask in this thread.

Without further nonsense from me, let the writing begin!


*Table of Contents​*
ThatOtherGuy: Contagion

gothik: The Idol

andygorn: The Hero of Xanthius Ridge

Boc: The Plains of Herdias Prime

Bane_of_Kings: The Grandfather

Svartmetall: Becoming

C'Tan Chimera: Noxious Thoughts

GregorEisenhorn: The Final Charge

Vulkansnodosaurus: Planting

arumichic: Salvation

The_Inquisitor: Contageon


----------



## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

RiaR runs "Corruption" while HOES runs "Contagion."

Someone up there _really_ wants me to write about plague marines, don't they...


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

In my defense, I _was_ going to run it as Corruption until JDD posted it up. Foiled by my own procrastination!


----------



## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Heh, it's not a bad thing. It means that I can get twice the payoff for half the work!

And I think that I can manage a story idea. I have a story summary from a while back--a character's backstory--that lends itself well to this. And actually, come to think of it, it isn't about plague marines. Time for foot-->mouth.


----------



## ThatOtherGuy (Apr 13, 2010)

Well, since according to webster that Contagion means 'spread', I did my little thing about diseases and plagues.

++++++​
There it was, sitting at the top of the hill, laughing at them, laughing at them like this was the funniest thing it ever saw.

“Why must you struggle you poor souls? Why must you fight against the inevitable? Can you not see that you are already loosing?” The great bloated sack of pus jeered. “Sit at ease and let the taint fill your lungs! For I ensure you that you will be feeling much better when this has all come to pass!”

The marines at the bottom of the hill however, felt much differently about this demon’s promise. Rolling on the ground in agonizing pain, the marines coughed and gagged on the noxious air that filled their lungs that the prior brothers passed on. The disease proved to be too much for the harden warriors in the end, their assault on the greater demon was considered futile in the eyes of a spectator. While some gave up to the air born demon virus, some of the marines resisted there inevitable fate. A few stood back up and tried to march back up the hill with their weapons blaring at the monster. Within moments however, the plague finally showed them who was the boss as they began to fall back onto the dead ground. The demon continued to laugh at their pain.

“Do I need to say it once more mortals? Just let the disease take you away and into the father’s embrace! No need to fight!” The demon mocked. “Just like all of the people on this planet before you, you shall too pass away in the gardens of blight!”

Finally the end came as the demon proclaimed. The marines that vainly stood against Nurgle’s greatest were now on the ground dead. This noxious plague proved itself to be the victor today and this greatly pleased the demon. The defense of Pimius was a failure against the ravaging hordes of the plague father.

“Did I not tell you mortals? Peace has come to you! A painful slow peace has finally arrived to take you away… from this torment…” The demon laughed in victory.

The demon then slowly made its way down its hill, his head held up with pride in finishing off the last of the marines. But too much surprise for the servant of Nurgle, one marine did not fall to its plague. There in the mist stood a silhouette of a marine brandishing an eviscator, his posture showing that he was ready to strike with righteous fury.

“And how is it that you, out of all of your brothers managed to survive my ‘blessings’?” The demon asked the marine in a mocking manner.

In response to that insulting question, the marine charged out of the mist with fury, brandishing his eviscator madly.

“I see that you are not in the mood for polite conversation…” The demon smiled “Never mind, if it is death which you seek, so be it…”

The marine screamed wildly as he made his way to the demon, raging out litanies of hate and death on the way. The demon on the other hand, sat their patiently as the vengeful marine approached. When the marine was in appropriate range, the demon laughed and sent forth a cloud of breathing death from his bleeding orifices. The marine however, was not fazed by this demonic magic and continued to run like a madman. The great unclean one was perplexed at this effect in return. How could one man survive this gust of toxins if his brothers did not? But as the demon tried to shake out of this confusing state of mind, the marine lunged forward and drove his eviscator in the heart of the demon. While it was not a killing blow at all, the damage done to the center stunned the demon as he cried out in pain. But the marine did not cease there. He continued to hack and slash at the giant monster of pus at increasing pace, almost to the point where his movement seemed to jump from place to place. The legs, arms and even the back were not left untouched by the Emperor’s enraged. 

The demon fought back in return against this assailant, but the ferocity and speed proved to be too much for him. Every time the demon swung his blade at where the marine stood, it missed him with good distance and every time he tried to block the marine’s attack, he was too late. The duel between god and mortal continued into the late of night until finally the wounds proved to be too much. The pus and blood that poured out over the fight were now at dangerous levels. The demon was bleeding to death.

“You cannot defeat me! I am death itself mortal, and it shall be me who stands on top!” The great unclean one raged furiously.

The marine could tell that this bag of pus was on the verge of collapse and thus it was the time to finish him off. With one brisk move, the marine jumped and threw his eviscator at the demon’s throat. With divine luck the blade dug itself deeply into the rotting flesh and sent the demon onto the ground. The beast pulled the blade out but it now could tell that it was not the mortal who would be tasting death today… but him.

“How could this be mortal?! How could you have possible survive my poxes and plagues unscathed?!” The demon gargled as he laid there slowly bleeding to death. “This is impossible even to the insane!”

The marine walked up to the demon’s face and stared right at him eye to eye, giving off a glare of righteous vengeance.

“ITS BECAUSE I TAKE MY MOTHERFUCKING VITAMIN C BITCH!” 

++++++​
Word count: 964


----------



## gothik (May 29, 2010)

nice story thatotherguy really enjoyed it.

am thinking of doing a warhammer one bit out of my comfort zone as i have not really touched the fantasy side of warhammer since i was like....20 so heres hoping it turns out ok when i done it.


----------



## gothik (May 29, 2010)

The Idol


Word Count: 963


My wife has died.

There was no ceremony; there was no great priest of Morr standing over her grave giving her the blessing to enter the god of the deads realm. 

My wife had died as a traitor and a heretic to the Emperor and the gods of this world, oh the neighbours had come around expressing their horror and their sympathies, proclaiming their innocence in the whole sordid affair.

I listen to their procrastinations and I nod my head politely, a word of thank you escape from my lips but it does not touch my eyes. My beloved Anja had tended to their sicknesses and their petty colds. 

She had brought many of their children into the world but, she had refused the advances of that fat bastard up at the tower and that had been her downfall. She had followed Shalya without fail and without recourse.

A few coins here and there and promises of wealth and prosperity and suddenly the grateful sheep do as the burgomaster say. Rumours began of her copulating with unnatural powers, making deals with the dark gods to get the results she required and finally the witch hunters came into our small village, with witch hunters come fear.

One by one, for fear of getting the zealotry that is Sigmars witch hunters encroaching on their personal affairs, the cowards bowed down to the burgomaster and did, as he wanted.

My wife was tried and convicted and burnt at the stake with me unable to do anything.

My wife has died and soon they will all die too.


For weeks I wander the forests outside the village, planning and plotting, each morning at dawn I leave and return at nightfall, ignoring the pitying looks and the sorrowful shakes of the head. 

I have letters from my grandfathers’ archives that speak of an idol, buried by the long dead warrior kings that once ruled this land during the time of Sigmar. The story went that before Sigmar conquered these lands they were ruled by warriors of great renown, strength and power, warriors that could call upon the gods for revenge against their enemies when a great harm had befallen their line.

Following my grandfathers paperwork to the letter it is the ninth week before I find what I am looking for and then under the full moon of Moorslieb I start to dig, at the foot of a diseased and dead tree.

It takes me most of the night to dig down, I am not an old man but this is a job for two men not one, and even with my youth it takes me a fair while to dig. Finally my shovel hits something hard and setting it down I kneel down and begin to smooth away the accumulated dirt and grit.

It is a plain box, made of some sort of metal. I have never seen anything like it and the writing along the side is alien to me, but I know that my grand fathers papers will enable me to enact my revenge.

My wife is dead and they will soon learn the price of my anger.


The box is sealed shut but with some prying and poking I manage to finally open it, the rust flakes away like iron sand. It is not easy to do but one I am in I knows that my revenge will be complete.

I take the wrapped idol from its housing and reverently unwrap it. As I clean it up I see before me a knight, or at least what looks like a knight. The paint has all but gone but the features are still visible.

Made of stone, carved and whoever created this must have taken many painstaking hours to create such a lifelike individual. I set it to one side and rifle around looking through my grandfathers’ notes but to my frustration I cannot find anything to aid me in my plans.

In my frustration I cut my hand on the edge of the box and it stings so much that I am waving my hand around. Some blood lands on the statue and before my cursing eyes my blood is soaked within the statues shield. 

I move towards it and place my blooded palm around the entire statue and waited. I try to clear my mind, the way my Anja would do when she was praying to the goddess for divine inspiration but all in my mind is revenge. 

The sane side of my mind tells me that this is what my wife called contagion magic, magic that is passed from the emotions of another through to an idol or object to enact their desires.

My wife is dead and all I care about is revenge.


Now I can only watch as my body, transformed into image of the knight slays the inhabitants of my village, I take pleasure in hearing their screams, I bathe in the bloodlust that enriches my senses, the scent of destruction wrought by my own hand. 

I save my wrath for the burgomaster and make him watch as I rape his wife and daughter. I slit his throat from ear to ear and neck to sternum. All around me the contagion of my wrath flies through the village like an unchecked storm and when it is over it is only then I realise what has become of me.

I am an avatar of grief and an being of destruction, I am driven by my urge for revenge against the gods who forsook my wife in her hour of need and those that would serve such folly of fools.

My wife is long dead and I am an avatar of chaos undivided, they call me Contagion.


----------



## andygorn (Apr 1, 2011)

I was torn between two subjects for this one...maybe I picked the wrong one (lol), but here goes. (In my -probable- ignorance, I'd thought that 'contagion' could be akin to 'sickness', but maybe that might not be the official/dictionary-based definition?).

*“The Hero of Xanthius Ridge” (HOES #6 “Contagion”):* 
_ (1096 words I think) _

“Of course: it is a _disease_, Staff Sergeant Lyman; the most virulent cancer to be excised without mercy. Didn’t you know that?” Venkov’s voice broke the silence in the command bunker.
“No sir.”
A sharp intake of breath and the harsh _<kerchunk>_ of the other man’s pump-action shotgun told Lyman that he’d made another mistake. Despite his exemplary 22 year service record, his commander did not suffer fools so -in his best ‘parade ground’ voice- added: “No I did not know that, Lord-Commissar Venkov, sir!”
“That’s better”, said the other man turning around and visibly relaxing, yet still cradling the chrome-plated weapon in his arms.
Seeing the lower-ranked soldier eyeing the gun, yet mistaking the Staff Sergeant’s fear of it for interest, Venkov added: “I can see that you like guns, Lyman. That is good. Soldiers like you and I must sometimes use the most _awful_ tools of our trades.”
“Indeed, Lord Commissar, sir” came the reply, yet the superior officer continued talking -almost as if there had been no response at all- whilst he seated himself in the ancient tactical command chair.

“This gun was given to me by my mentor, Commissar Adraeus, a fine man. You'll recall that it has performed much bloody work for us in this sector. Which is why I was so dismayed to hear reports of your treachery in the assault yesterday...*most* unbecoming of a decorated man like yourself. Isn’t that the Xanthius Ridge medal upon your chest?”
Confused and bewildered by Venkov’s statement, all Lyman could do was furiously nod in agreement with the question, whilst trying to work out what was happening: “Yes, Lord Commissar Venkov, sir. Two years ago, we wiped out the main warband of a greenskin menace in those valleys. It was one hell of a battle and I am honoured that you saved my life Lord Commissar, sir!”

A note of desperation had entered his voice as his mind fought to recall what he might have done to be accused of such things. _’Surely a couple of bets on the canid-racing and few snifters of looted amasec couldn’t count anywhere near equal to treason, could they?’_ 

“I see that you are confused. Normally I would reserve such information for a court-martial but -given our history- I will indulge you, Lyman, a sort of ‘head-up’.”
“I would be very grateful for your patience, Lord Commissar, sir!” Lyman almost screamed in thanks, as it could buy more time to discover the truth. Venkov was _surely_ a reasonable man: if he just had a minute to explain, Lyman knew that his superior would see the outright lies of these rumours and fully exonerate him.

“You and your platoons attacked the enemy trench at 9:00 did you not? You cleared the trench and began to work your way through them, exterminating the foe as you went? _Why then_ did you stop to loot the foe’s corpses like common thieves? Didn’t we train those base practices out of *you people* in the transports on the way here?”

“Lord Commissar, sir: as we neared the end of the earthworks, the foe had brought up various heavy weapons and were in danger of strafing the entire trench and over a hundred of our men in it. Whilst we kept their heads down with covering fire and waited for support, I noticed that one of the slain enemies was a Captain who carried a document-pouch. I saw it contained plans and maps which could be vital to our war-effort and believed that these might help to end this struggle sooner...perhaps even years earlier and much less costly in lives than envisaged...”

Venkov’s venomous interruption stopped Lyman’s explanation dead in it’s tracks: “So, you not only _derelicted_ your orders by failing to advance and staying where you were, but you also encouraged many others to do so? Then, you took it upon yourself to ‘Play General’ and *dictate the Imperium’s war-policy*..?! We did _not_ give you that rank just to throw it around like a playground bully’s swagger and let you start deciding what is best for the Army...”

Desperately trying to appeal to his superior’s sense of duty and the command structure, Lyman retorted almost angrily: “I was the highest-ranking solder still standing; all the helmetless officers had been picked off by enemy snipers in the final hours before our assault. My soldiers are battle-hardened and courageous men, but you yourself know that men need bold leadership during adversity and these men had _no-one else_ to show it to them, Lord Commissar sir.” Lyman almost spat out the last words through his gritted teeth, as he seethed at how his words were now being twisted right in front of him.

Face almost purple with rage, Venkov launched into his reponse: “Your guilt in the matter is manifest, Staff Sergeant Lyman! I will hear no more from your coward’s tongue, but you are allowed one chance to see if you can be cured of this sickness.” Even though the large bore gun did not need to be accurate to be deadly, the twin barrels of the shotgun swung up to align with Lyman’s upper torso.
The finality of his situation hit Lyman like a sledgehammer and he began to sink to his knees. However, with his end swiftly approaching, Lyman’s sense of duty and personal honour were the only things keeping him upright and the Lord Commissar saw this in his eyes, granting a brief reprieve as the Staff Sergeant straightened before him, resuming his stance of being at full attention.
“I will not run from battle, nor allow the enemy to gain ground...” Lyman began to invoke his unit’s battle-cant just before the heavy manstopper shells took him in the chest, shearing him almost in two as his corpse hit the bunker’s reinforced wall.

Outside, even Venkov’s iron-willed and steel-visored bodyguards shuddered at the resounding blasts from the weapon’s dual discharge, but said not a word to the disarmed prisoner-troopers in front of them.

Inside the room, Lord Commissar Ulatrius Venkov brutally suppressed his emotions at the waste of life that it was his calling to inflict. Closing the eyes of former Staff Sergeant Isak Lyman whilst he whispered: “Cowardice. Dereliction of duty. Ignorance of the chains of command. These things are the gravest of diseases afflicting the Imperium.”
Pressing the button for the bodyguards to admit the next criminal for execution, he intoned the same mantra he had already used twenty two times that day: “I use the most awful tools at my disposal to burn away and purge these contagions...lest you infect the whole body.”


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

The Fields of Herdias Prime
Word Count: 1099 including title

He fekking _hated_ the trenches.

Then again, each world seemed like a shithole just a little bit worse than the last. _The grass is greener on the other side of my arse,_ he mused. 

Shaking off the rain collecting on his matte black helm, Derik Vigo grimaced. The humidity, the heat, and the mud were the great triumvirate of Herdias Prime, and he doubted he would be done with it any time soon. The cultists on the other side of No Man’s Land seemed more than happy to sit out the long coming months of the rainy season in their bunkers while the Guardsmen of the Larillan 41st wallowed in filth.

As if reading his glum mood, Cranson chuckled beside him. Glancing over, Derik noticed his squadmate watching him from the autocannon’s mount. ‘Well look at the bright side mate,’ Cranson said, ‘it could be raining the drips!’

Derik sniggered; Cranson, the never-ending optimist, had contracted a venereal disease the last time he had visited the whores on ‘furlough.’ Despite the man’s discomfort while urinating, he still found the whole episode hilarious, and brought attention to it whenever he could.

‘Just keep it in your pants, Cranson,’ he responded, ‘I have no need to have your crotch-contagion spreading, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the commissar would consider you spreading it treason.’ Derik sighted back down his sniper scope, trying to find any movement in the deluge. ‘”Corrupting the holy masses of the Emperor’s Guard,” he’d say. “hampering the ’

‘True, true,’ his friend replied, ‘he’s just jealous I’ve gotten tail.’

Derik resisted bait and kept focusing on No Man’s Land. Truth be told, as much as he liked Cranson’s amiable banter, sometimes he just wanted the man to shut the _hell_ up. It was hotter than a whorehouse on discount days, _and Cranson’d know_, the mud was deep enough to suck the boots from his feet each time he tried to move, and the meteorological team with the 41st reported no end to the rainstorms in the near future.

The damned rainstorms were the reason he was stuck in the trench in the first place. The sodden terrain was too soft for high amounts of armoured traffic, and the tanks and artillery pieces from the rest of the battlegroup had been deemed more important than the 41st’s troop transports. Therefore, Derik and the other four thousand riflemen had to spend a solid week digging trenches. He scowled and stretched his still-sore fingers, feeling the raw skin rub painfully against his flak gloves.

_Well, too late for that synth-skin now,_ he thought. The skin was at least starting to heal, and despite his complete inability to keep the torn blisters dry, at least the pain had receded to a constant ache radiating up his arms instead of the biting stabs it had been.

‘Enjoying the rain, fekkers?’ a voice said behind them. Derik turned to see the Sergeant-of-the-Guard, Lenitto, leaning bareheaded in the shoddily-constructed wooden fighting position. ‘Just making sure you weren’t grabbing a bit o’ shuteye, la-’ He abruptly cut off as a fit of vicious coughing seized his body.

‘Get in uniform before you try calling us out, eh?’ Cranson called back, ‘And announce yourself ahead of time, I can’t hear shite in this rain.’

Sergeant Lenitto could not respond, his body just kept convulsing with coughs. ‘So-_cough_-rry _cough_ don’t kn-_cough_-ow wh-_cough_-at the fek...’ his words died off as he collapsed against the frame of the entryway, clenching his throat.

‘Is he fekking choking?’ Cranson’s voice had risen noticeably, ‘Keep watching, I’ll help him.’ Cranson rushed over to kneel by the hacking sergeant, tossing his kit carelessly to the ground.

Derik tried to focus on No Man’s Land, but there was something about Lenitto’s coughing that made him queasy. It was not the same dry hack or wet wheeze that normally accompanied the ague. He heard the man retching behind him, the heaves and solid splashes into the puddles distinctive over the rain. He felt a wave of nausea rush over him, raising the hairs on his neck. The incessant hacking continued, and he could hear it being echoed down the line.

Glancing back, he saw the sergeant sprawled face down in the mud, a bloody, black ichor spreading from his head. Cranson grasped futilely at his throat from his knees, reaching out to Derik for help. On the man’s pale skin, Derik could see a black stain creeping, corrupting.

He was frozen, not with fear, but with disgust. These men were plagued, and he knew he could do nothing for them. Helplessness welled in his chest as Cranson’s outstretched hand began trembling. The dark rot ate through the fingers, and each fell in a grotesque splash in the water. The taint spread in the water, rancid tendrils shooting out in all directions feeling for a new host.

Pushing himself back into the corner of the fighting position, Derik could do nothing but watch in utter horror as the seeking fingers of decay spread towards him, searching for an opening in his uniform. It found a seam, and he felt his leg ignite. Something was burning him from the inside, a fiery agony that he had never known exploded up his leg as his body consumed itself.

‘God Emperor, preserve us!’ he cried, ripping his flak jacket off and exposing his chest to the rain. The blackness was spreading, filling his veins with decay. So focused was he, staring in abject horror at the stain that he did not notice Cranson collapse limply in the trench, with his rotting stump still stretched to his friend, nor that his boots had fallen freely from feet that had rotted to mush, nor did he see the massive, bloated armoured figure approach his position and gaze inside. He could feel nothing below his waist, only a burn and the sweet odour of his own festering flesh as his chest cavity collapsed.

_Voices..._ ‘Nothing here, Lord,’ a metallic, gurgling voice said from behind him. He tried to turn and look, but his spine had long since liquefied, and his head swung freely from his neck. As his head lolled back and forth and his brain was consumed, he thought he saw the outline of an angel of death.

*****​
‘All are dead,’ Nosfer reported, ‘None resisted.’

Flegmus nodded, unsurprised. These hosts were too mature to adapt to survive the Cleansing. No new souls would be garnered in the Grandfather’s army this day. ‘To the next world, then,’ his voice bubbled, thick with mucus. ‘The Wrathful demands more.’


----------



## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

*The Grandfather*
_1049 Words_


_In the embrace of the great Nurgle, I am no longer afraid, for with His pestilential favour I have become that which I once most feared: Death._​~Kulvain Hestarius of the Death Guard​
_774. M41_


THE COUGHING HAD begun several weeks ago. Several weeks ago I thought it was just a normal cough, with no strings attached. That was, a perfectly normal one that would go away in a couple of days.

Only this one, it was persistent. It stuck to me like a fly is attracted to a light, never letting go, be it at sunrise or sunset. 

And worse, it had spread. Spread throughout my squad, infecting five of us so far. Leonas, Kulvain, Harkness, Lok and myself. All fine warriors, all veterans of Cadia. We had withstood the brunt of the Despoiler’s attack, and survived the seven day siege of the Fortress-City of Theranis. 

And now we were succumbing to this. The Legends told by people in bars mention of a plague which swept Terra thousands of years before Him on Earth came to power, a plague which sowed nothing but devastation through the likes of every person, be they innocent or not.

Loyal or traitor, xenos or worse, nothing escapes the plague. It is the one thing that has caused devastation for millions of people throughout the Universe, the one thing that almost every planet, even Holy Terra itself has in common.

At least one person has died from the plague.

And now it has come to us, the 105th ‘Siege Breakers’ Cadian Regiment, the one that held fast whilst others fell back, the one that earned its nickname after the Seven Day Siege. 

Where others dared to tread, we saw the opportunity. Where others couldn’t break their target, we broke it for them. 

We were one of the most elite non Glory Boy Regiment that the Imperium had at its disposal. Victory after victory, mission after mission. Indeed, there are only a few Regiments that I’ve heard of that can even match our record of consistent victories, let alone beat it. 

Every now and again I hear of the Sabbat Worlds Crusades, the mass purge of heretics in that area. I hear mentions of Ghosts, Imperial Guardsmen from nowhere, lead by their Inspirational Colonel-Commissar.

They must have been a pretty undisciplined lot. I mean, to have a Commissar who’s also a Colonel... I shuddered at the thought. Put it this way, if our newly attached Commissar Leves was granted command of the whole regiment...

God-Emperor help us all.

Well, that was what I would have said if I was still part of the 105th, still a warrior – still fighting for the corpse that sits upon the Golden Throne. 

Yes – I no longer serve him, that bastard Emperor who has let countless of lives fade away without caring, without even –

_- The Imperial Guard. Bullets spray over his shoulder as he notices the traditional colours of his brethren. The ones who have still remained loyal. Although they are few, they are strong. 

“How long have we got until the blasted Death Guard get here?” Kulvain yells in his direction, bringing a loyalist down with his lasgun, a superb hit. 

Just because we had forsaken our oath to the Emperor doesn’t mean that we’re not good fighters anymore. “I hope they get here soon,” the soldier responded. “This is getting boring. You know the Commissar just fell, right?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Kulvain chuckled from behind the wall. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages. Makes me almost wish I was still one of them now.”

“We’re screwed unless those Death Guard get here,” Kulvain commented. “They’re fighting like inspired men. If they keep it up, we don’t have a chance.”

“It won’t take long for them to run out of ammo,” the first man remarked. “Besides, they’re surrounded.”

“Yeah, but they’re still the 105th. Siege Breakers, right?” Kulvain rebutted. “They may have lost three quarters of their men but that still doesn’t mean they can’t break out from a siege.”

“Sir!” the vox-operator, Leonas – turned to the unnamed warrior. “Death Guard Terminators en route. They’re finally here.”

“Excellent,” Kulvain smiled, and turned to the figure. “See – you’d never have got this far as part of the loyalists, people’d never call you sir in that rabble.”

The man addressed as sir chuckled slightly, before saying after a moment - “I think I could get used to it.” 

And then it happened.

Suddenly, materialising directly in front of the renegade Imperial Guardsmen was the warriors who the commander now owed his life to. Half a dozen green-armoured clad adeptus astartes, warriors who had long ago forsaken their oath to the Emperor now spearheaded the assault, with it only taking a round of weapons fired from their anti-armour figure to bring death to a Leman Russ Battle Tank, crippling its machine spirit and killing the crew without mercy.

“Die, Loyalist scum!” one barked, and a searing flame erupted from its bloated armour, causing several Imperial Guardsmen caught under the fire to scream in agony.

“Now’s our moment! The Terminator’s can’t win this alone!” The Commander roared, lifting his stolen Sword and holding it skyward, before leaping over the barricades and into the thick of battle –_

- Oh, how glorious my first battle as a renegade was. It was not my last, which was a very nice thing, for I am still fighting. Still fighting, for I no longer fear death on the battlefield. The Grandfather has made me stronger, much more powerful than I could ever become.

They whisper my name throughout the warband now, as the man who destroyed an entire Imperial Guard Regiment with one cough. This is alone is enough to see me elevated, and praised by the almighty Grandfather who has kept me alive thus so far. 

I never had a name, as a member of the Imperial Guard. Just a service number, for I had never needed a proper name in the past. So, when I turned my back on my fellows, cast aside my oaths of devotion and became an oath breaker, all I needed was one new name – that would inspire my new brothers and bring woe to the opposition. 

And that name, that one name – is Contagion. 

+++

Sorry Gothik about the similar ending - I thought the name suited the guy's background though. Nice stories so far folks .


----------



## Svartmetall (Jun 16, 2008)

*BECOMING​*


The subject lay motionless in his restraints, which were easily capable of holding a fully gene-altered Astartes should the need ever have arisen. Above and to either side of the medical table, robotic arms moved tirelessly along the length of the body and back, their motions reminiscent of the slow dance of underwater plants in a gentle current. The sensors which studded the tips of each arm maintained a ceaseless electronic vigil, watching for any change – no matter how minute – in the subject. 

Human eyes also watched, from behind an armourglass viewport, and human minds pondered what the electronic tools observed. 


_Day Six after initial exposure. Subject’s skin temperature locally varying between 23 and 49 degrees; no sign of damage to dermal or subdermal tissue after thermal events. Causal processes of thermal events unknown. Signs of asymptotic neuron behaviour evident in responses to reflex and motor testing; some test responses indicate high levels of kinaesthesia, whereas others show a state of neural inactivity resembling necrosis. No indication of necrotising agents or processes in skin samples taken from affected areas. Causal processes of neural behaviour unknown. PH balance of subject’s sweat and urine varying between human-normal and -4; no variation in content of nutrient feed lines has been induced. No evidence of acid damage to epidermis or tissues of urinary tract. Causal processes of PH-balance variations unknown._


The body of a convicted underhive ganger had been exposed to the original infecting agent on the orders of the Inquisition, members of the Ordos Hereticus, Malleus and Sepulturum collaborating on the case despite their own widely varying (and sometimes directly conflicting) personal agendas. The staff of the medicae facility itself, offered a choice between co-operation and a bolt round, chose to co-operate; some of them correctly guessed that a bolt round would almost certainly still be their reward once the case was solved. All of them were intrigued by the case itself, offering as it did a chance to study such an unusual disease.


_Day Eleven after initial exposure. The variations of epidermal pigmentation observed for the last three days appear to have stabilised, the subject’s skin now assuming a uniform greyish colour. Causal processes of dermal colouration unknown. Subject’s urine has remained steady at a PH of -26 now for two days; superacidic burns have been effected to the catheter apparatus. All perspiration activity has ceased; attempts to induce perspiration by altering test-chamber temperature ineffective. Causal processes of both symptoms unknown. The most interesting development has been the increasing opacity of the subject’s internal organs (and some major circulatory channels), whose progressive deformation now resembles no known configuration in any human or genetically-related abhuman type. Again, causal processes of this are unknown. It must be said that our inability to scan much of the subject’s internal structure via any of the tools available to this facility (including isotopic-scatter tomography and P-ray derivation) has now become a major impediment to further progress. Inquisitor Hartmann has nevertheless insisted, rather forcefully, that we make every effort to continue._ 


The glittering forest of instruments that surrounded the test subject’s body was so intent on the subject himself that none of them noticed a change in the metal table on which he lay. On the underside of the table itself, the military-grade steel and ceramite alloy had discoloured to a dull grey that matched the subject’s own skin, and patches of the metal appeared to have worn away to show the subject’s flesh behind. 


_Day Fifteen after initial exposure. An attempt to procure a blood sample resulted in the rapid dissolving of the needle, by what subsequent analysis revealed to be a superacid similar in composition to the last urine sample obtained before urinary activity ceased two days ago. Subject’s epidermis has also become increasingly resilient; two needles broke before we could get the third one through, at which point the subject’s body appears to have defended itself against the needle by producing the acid. A further attempt to penetrate the same area of the subject’s epidermis merely resulted in the needle snapping against the outer dermal layer, which appeared to have hardened drastically and rapidly; scans revealed that the dermal temperature in this area had lowered to match the ambient temperature in a matter of seconds. Two of our orderly servitors that had entered the chamber to retrieve the injector apparatus showed traces of alkali corruption to some of their augmetic components; the servitors were immediately subjected to quarantine incineration. 

This prompted a check of all equipment in the chamber, and the subject’s observation table is now showing signs of severe corrosion at every point of contact with the subject’s body. We are fast approaching a point where we are both unable to observe anything beneath the subject’s epidermal layer at all, and equally unable to physically interact with his body.

Dear Throne, what have those madmen brought here?_ 


At precisely eleven minutes past midnight on the twenty-first day after infection, the subject moved for the first time. While only a small twitch of his right leg, nonetheless this tripped the motion sensors and within four minutes the small observation room was packed with facility staff and Inquisitors alike. The subject’s eyes were open, unblinking, and small tremors were coursing through his body at intervals of a few seconds. Fascinated, Inquisitor Barkhorn observed that the table on which he lay now appeared to be only a few millimetres thick yet still supporting the subject’s weight; this was still being debated when the subject’s head turned towards the viewport. While it stared through the tinted armourglass, with no apparent effort the subject raised its left arm and snapped the restraints. This motion caused the table to collapse beneath it, and the subject impacted the plascrete floor with a sound more akin to a large metal weight being dropped than a human body. In fact, there had been much debate as to whether the extreme chemical changes that had been observed meant the subject could even be counted as human any more. 

Standing upright, the subject raised its arm and stared intently at it as it changed colour from dull grey to what looked like the silver of pure steel, and then with mesmerising slowness extended out into a smooth blade-like shape. The subject ran his eyes up and down the length of the blade, then turned his gaze once more to the viewport. 

His eyes were the dead black of a predator fish. He smiled. 



_***-mediate assistance! Repeat, this is Inquisitor Rall requesting immediate assistance! Contagion confirmed to be Obliterator virus! Subject has escaped and-***_





*1,099 words*


----------



## C'Tan Chimera (Aug 16, 2008)

*Noxious Thoughts*​
Albatos left the room for a moment to catch his breath. How exactly is one supposed to torture a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, anyway? He was baffled. He had one last plan left. He could only hope it worked. He looked through the one way window back at his victim. The Techpriest hung suspended from the glaring, sterile white room, stripped of his mechanical appendages. Without the mighty churning limbs and flowing red robes of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Techpriest Jarlex looked absolutely pathetic. Perhaps he even looked somewhat pitiful. Perhaps. Albatos was in no place to voice such sympathies, especially under the gaze of the Inquisition. 

Making the sign of the Aquilla to grant him the extra patience, Albatos reentered the grossly sterile torture chamber. Donning his scrubs and rolling out all the tools of the trade, he made his way around the dangling torso, a bundle of far more metal than flesh. He patted his head, knowing very well that Jarlex was still there. Suddenly, Jarlex’s metallic voice reemerged.

“Ah, you’re back.”

“Yeah, I am. Care to spit it out now before I have to bring out the big toys?” Jarlex shook his head, prompting a sneer from Albatos. He instinctively reached for a gruesome probe bristling with hooks, but looked at the metal body in hopelessness. Jarlex cocked his head.

“Your frustration… It brings up memory of that old sensation. And another one at that.” The techpriest droned from his crackling vox. Albatos looked at him. “Really. Which is?” He hadn’t made any progress at all, so he was willing to listen to almost anything at this point.

“Amusement.” The vox chirped out all too perky for a victim of torture. The heat flushed to Albatos’ face in both anger and embarrassment. He knew he was under surveillance- to risk looking incompetent was to risk his own life! He grabbed a nearby tiny hammer intended to break the individual joints of the finger and struck hard. Jarlex did nothing. It was like Albatos was playing with some sort of elaborate puzzle. No matter what brute force or surgical precision he practiced on the cyborg’s body, he could get no closer to solving it! 

“…Is it really so hard to understand the concept of desiring power, Albatos?” The priest hummed. Albatos had been in this room for the most of the day- he had grown weary a long time ago, but only now was it bubbling to the surface like some thick colony of blisters. “It’s not. Is it so hard to understand the concept of pain?” 

“It is, actually. I haven’t known pain in a long time- but that’s not important. What is important is that you want to know why I decided to crack through all the firewalls in the Imperial database.” 

Albatos nodded wearily and stood up, looking the stiffened body right in his glowing bionic eyes. “Yes! It’s not too late to find redemption in a dignified death.” 

He shook his head, the sound of gears grinding beneath his pale skin. “You’ve prodded and stripped what little flesh I had left. You tried to make my dead nerves scream with the most twisted machines. You’ve severed my limbs, melted my servos, dissected and discarded all my coils and cables. All those machine spirits put to the torch... and yet you still have nothing.”

“… By the damned throne, let loose those lips and redeem yourself!”

“If I still did have lips right now, Albatos…” Jarlex reared his head slowly.

“…I would gnaw those weak, fleshy bulbs out of your fragile skull and spit them back at you.”

Albatos stepped back and walked around him. “Very well… I try to do my job without passion, but you’ve pushed it“. He shoved a huge cable in the back of the techpriest’s head and made a gesture to where the one way window stood. A faint whirr could be heard as hidden machines set to work. 

“My cohort outside is already directly interacting with your brain. He’ll delete your very essence piece by piece until you’re just some hollow shell.” He cracked a grin, finally a sense of sinister profession sweeping over him. “And then we’ll use you as another mindless torture servitor.” He suddenly felt it. The techpriest was shivering! Pride swelled in his chest as the panicked techpriest spoke.

“Okay! Okay!... I didn’t destroy those shrines and violate the database firewall for no reason.” He found himself stroking the mechanical man’s bald head. “Go on.” 

“…It was to weaken it for a second attack once you enacted such a method of torture...” Jarlex purred. The stroking stopped.

Jarlex went silent. “Talk or I’ll reduce you to a calculator!” Albatos barked, only to jump back as Jarlex’s trembling body began quaking and throbbing. The fine line between man and machine blurred as Jarlex’s body fused to the cable which bloated like some vile snake full on eggs.

Albatos ran to grab any sort of tool from the table that might serve as a weapon, only to have flailing cables scatter them. Failing that, he ran for the door- it was locked. He looked back and shrieked; Jarlex’s body fused to his suspension beams where cables burst out and clung to him like ivy. In many deep, mechanical voices he hummed his words.

“The mind is a contagion, Albatos… A virus, if you will. It is form of life; a complex construct of many simpler impulses and instincts, functioning together as one greater whole to survive. The only thing that keeps such noxious thoughts in check is that they’re imprisoned within the brain, relying on communication to spread. You just inadvertently changed that.” The one-way window shattered as Albatos’ partner was hurled through by a nearby servitor, now just a bloodied corpse. The interrogation servitors outside lurched forward, the meaty puppets following a new master. Jarlex leaned in- if he still had lips, he probably would be grinning wide.

“I suppose you could consider Humanity a contagion as well, actually- a sexually transmitted disease that affects some more than others. Like all forms of life, contagions compete for dominance. I’d say I just gained the upper hand.”

Albatos closed his eyes and waited for the end, but as the nightmarish talons of an interrogation servitor clamped down on him, he realized the end was a long way off. “Long ago the inherit disease of humanity infected me. I successfully purged it all after some time, but… If Humanity can infect the machine, I wonder if the machine can infect Humanity...Let’s find out!” Jarlex mused.

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

1,097 words. I cannot begin to explain how much I had to tweak, edit, and trim this thing to keep it within the word limit. Lost a lot of great bits in the process, but still manages to convey the story well, so I'm happy with it.


----------



## GregorEisenhorn (May 19, 2011)

Like *CC*, it was a real task to get this down to the word limit, their was so much more I wanted to tell. But I guess that's the discipline we're bing taught! :so_happy:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*The Final Charge*
*Word count: 1,100*

Four days and nights the enemy had battered their position.

The first shell had been fired in the dead of night, right when it had been least expected. It had fallen short of the trench works, exploding harmlessly in a shower of dirt and rocks. The third shell had been more accurate falling at the end of this, Captain Viktor Sternhiem’s trench. It had taken out first and fourth platoons, killing everyone.

Then their infantry had come.

Once they had been loyal guardsmen just like Sternheim and his men. Not now. Now they were mere beasts.

The fighting that night had been the most frenzied of all. Commissar Fellini had been everywhere- urging the men on to ever greater heights of heroism as wave after wave buffeted their position. That was before he had been picked out by an enemy sniper, collapsing with a head left a bloody ruin mid-exhortation.

From that point on Sternheim had struggled to maintain morale. When on the second day the secondary trench works had been decimated and the supply line cut, things had slipped away like sand through his fingers.

And now this this message from command.

“Do you understand me, Captain?”

Sternheim paused. He wasn’t sure he did, “Negative, sir. Please repeat that.”

“Very well,” came the terse reply from Colonel Josep Stern, the man at the other end of the vox. He represented everything that was wrong with the Imperial Guard: wealthy, promoted beyond his abilities and a moron to boot. Sternheim had little time for him. “You are to sally forth and attack the enemy positions, Captain.”

Sternheim’s heart sank. He had understood.

“Imperial forces have been pinned down for four days now. It’s time to show these heretics a thing or two, Viktor.”

“Sir, the last two-and-a-half days of this assault have been without fresh supplies for my men. They’re hungry and ill-equipped. We need relief and reinforcements in order to mount a credible assault, sir.”

“I beg your pardon, Captain? You forget your place!” Stern’s tone was now the kind of indignant that only a rich man who has never worked a day of his life can muster. “This command came direct through General Schlagg from the Lord Marshall.”

Sternheim was a career soldier and knew that was bullshit. Those men didn’t care about Heidenstadt anymore. That much was evident from the fact that Stern was now the ranking guardsman on the planet while his seniors had been relocated to new theatres.

“With all due respect, sir...”

“This is not a discussion, Captain! You have your orders! Stern out.” With that the vox hissed static.

Sternheim voiced several exotic expletives in his head, but said aloud: “Get me the Lieutenants and Sergeant Hark, please.”

Johan, Sternheim’s personal aid, saluted sharply and ran off to gather the officers, leaving Sternheim with his thoughts.

Heiden Primar had raised countless armies for Terra, and was a proud and noble planet. Yet right under the noses of the ruling elite the flames of heresy had caught and burned brutal ruin across this world.

Sternheim’s regiment- the ‘Glorious’ First- had been fighting a greenskin incursion when the traitors had revealed their hand. From across the galaxy the First and all Heiden regiments had returned to defend their home planet. The true horror of the treachery’s scale had only been revealed as many of the returning regiments allied themselves with the scum. Suddenly what should have been an easy suppression became a planetary war, and it was one the Imperium was losing.

“You called us, Captain?”

Sternheim was roused from his thoughts by Lieutenant Vass.

“Yes, I did,” Sternheim paused, “We have received word from Command. New orders, we’re to assault the enemy.”

“What the fuck!” exclaimed Sergeant Hark, “That’s not an order- it’s a death warrant!”

“Control yourself, Jorg!” snapped Sternheim, “I don’t like this either, but morale’s bad enough without your doomsday prophesy.”

“He has a point, though, Viktor,” noted Igel. Lieutenant Conrad Igel. Sternheim’s closest friend and confidante. His counsel mattered. “I don’t much care for telling my boys, sir.”

“Nor I, Captain,” Vass chipped in.

There was an awkward silence. These officers were flirting with mutiny, and they knew it.

“We’re soldiers, men. We follow orders for the glory of the Emper...”

“Don’t,” Igel cut across Sternheim, and as he did so the latter looked at the former in confusion.

“Don’t what, Conrad?”

“Don’t talk to me about the glory of the Emperor and the light of the Imperium. I’ve fought all my life for him and look how he repays me: stuck in a ditch on my home planet where my wife and children were murdered in their own home; being ordered to run into death’s arms with joy. Don’t tell me I owe him anything.”

Igel’s words hung in the air, the Captain’s mouth hung agape as he looked pleadingly at his Lieutenant who stared back defiantly.

“Do it for them,” as one the officers’ eyes turned to Johan, who had spoken.

“What?” asked Hark.

“I, well... I...” Johan was suddenly feeling rather foolish for ever having spoken, “Well, Lieutenant Igel, sir, you mentioned you’d lost your family.”

“What of it?” Igel’s mood darkened further at Johan’s mention of his family.

“Then fight for them, sir.” Silence greeted Johan, but he continued anyway. He was going to die. Whether it was at the hand of his own officers or heretics didn’t bother him. “And you, Captain. I know that you too have lost your family to the traitors.”

There was another awkward silence.

“The boy’s right, Viktor,” managed Igel, his voice thick as a solitary tear ran down his filthy face. He turned to Vass and said, “You know it too, Willem.”
Igel turned to Hark, but said nothing. They all knew what Hark had endured and knew words could not suffice.

“I won’t attack those bastards for Terra, Viktor. But I’ll do it for Marta. And for Rudi. And Heidi,” Igel couldn’t continue.

Hark and Vass nodded assent and Sternheim knew that despite the situation, the noblest thing he could do was say what was on his mind.

“So be it, gentlemen.”

+++++

The final charge of the Ninth Company of the First Heidenians came the following dawn.

The ragtag group of warriors sallied forth knowing they would meet their deaths, and yet content. For upon their lips as a final war-cry were the names of those who had gone before, but with whom they would soon be reunited.

If ever there was any glory in war, it was on display in the faltering light of that morrow.


----------



## C'Tan Chimera (Aug 16, 2008)

That was a surprisingly well written story, Gregor, but don't take this the wrong way when I ask 'Where is the contagion element?' . I was expecting some great reveal, but it didn't come. I'm not asking out of nitpicking so much as trying to help since there's still plenty of time to tweak it before the deadline.


----------



## GregorEisenhorn (May 19, 2011)

C'Tan Chimera said:


> That was a surprisingly well written story, Gregor, but don't take this the wrong way when I ask 'Where is the contagion element?' . I was expecting some great reveal, but it didn't come. I'm not asking out of nitpicking so much as trying to help since there's still plenty of time to tweak it before the deadline.


Quite alright, *CC*, happy to explain. k:

I felt that going with plague etc was a little predictable, so worked with the application of contagion at a psychological level- where it's a thought or idea that spreads from one to another. I felt that perhaps taking this different approach would help me write something a little more challengings which stands out from the crowd, and also something potentially more thought provoking. I mean Captain Sternheim and his men died heretics that day, and yet they were surely only doing what we all would. "in the grim darkness..." :grin:

So for me the reveal is when Johan suggests Igel fight for his dead family. (Maybe that's not clear enough- it's hard to seperate oneself from one's work often.) The thought spreads through the officers as I show, and by implication through all the men. Before you know it they're following an order they fundamentally disagree with, but for quite different reasons than that it's an order to be followed. That's heresy, and a process begun by one lad's voicing of a thought which spreads through the company. Contagion, to my mind.

Anyway, I accept you wrote in polite tones and don't want you to think that this reply is anything other than polite either, but I'm sure you'll appreciate that I want to defend my work! :biggrin:


----------



## C'Tan Chimera (Aug 16, 2008)

GregorEisenhorn said:


> Quite alright, *CC*, happy to explain. k:
> 
> I felt that going with plague etc was a little predictable, so worked with the application of contagion at a psychological level- where it's a thought or idea that spreads from one to another. I felt that perhaps taking this different approach would help me write something a little more challengings which stands out from the crowd, and also something potentially more thought provoking. I mean Captain Sternheim and his men died heretics that day, and yet they were surely only doing what we all would. "in the grim darkness..." :grin:
> 
> ...


Ooh, I see! Nono, it's all good man. I was looking at it from an all too literal perspective so it just slipped right past me. It actually fits in quite well, if not perhaps quite subtle. Well done!


----------



## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Here's my entry (and yes, I have the concept of "Contagion" as idea as well, though GregorEisenhorn took it first...)_

Planting
951 words
VulkansNodosaurus
Heresy Online Expeditious Stories Contest 6: Contagion​
Kaeliu was burning.

Steiroel regarded the mon-keigh city with passive eyes. The planetary invasion had gone successfully; the Thousand Sons were defiling the soil, as they often did, and unleashing various daemons.

Combating them would be wise in some ways, but Chaos too had its uses. The Farseers had said that the Great Enemy would not be able to use this world; it had been poisoned, and the Warp traces would in the long run only weaken Tzeentch. Simultaneously, a prosperous agri-world would be destroyed, slowing the Imperium’s advance and preventing them from launching a potential assault on Ulthwe itself. The mon-keigh had gotten too… rowdy recently. Alaitoc…

All of this, of course, would only happen if the rituals succeeded. Thus, the Blood Ravens battle-barge currently in orbit was quite worrying.

With a final whiff of the polluted smoke, Steiroel walked onto the lander’s surface. It would lift off in seconds, and yet there was time to discreetly probe the dying city. Psychic screams erupted into the Warp- not from the civilians, but from the Astartes. The stench of corpses was only slightly tangible on the growing wind. Below, the living metal of the spacecraft. Above, an eye in the heavens.

An eye that would remind Steiroel, always, of the infinite folly of his race.

The Autarch climbed into his personal vessel as it left the failing atmosphere of the agri-world behind.

The ascent took minutes, and the growing storm spreading from Kaeliu was clearly visible even from a low altitude. It was a vivid splotch that pained the eye, though not nearly as much as some other incantations of Chaos. At the same time, a spot of white was visible, faintly growing through the hurricane.

The lander attached to Steiroel’s flagship, and he walked onto the deck, bearing towards the point where his pilots were going to dock the Blood Ravens. Jaeris had agreed to meet with them- a convenient courtesy, and one that saved his life.

* * *

Kent Jaeris, Captain of the Blood Ravens, walked onto the xeno vessel with some trepidation and hate. Koan had insisted that this was completely safe, but given that these were the Eldar Jaeris could never feel completely safe.

Besides, that had been Koan.

The leader- at least, Jaeris assumed the one with the fancy helmet leader- seemed to smile under his helmet. “Now, will we discuss the situations here or-”

“Here,” Jaeris said abruptly, “unless you have anything classified to tell me.”

“The information I will supply is not secret, but quite straightforward. I would simply like to tell you that you need to return to the Aurelia subsector. A civil war is beginning within your Chapter.”

That was indeed quite straightforward- and quite unbelievable. Azariah Kyras had the Blood Ravens well in hand!

“What you are suggesting is heresy!”

“No, heresy is what threatens your integrity.”

Jaeris nodded, and turned around. “This discussion is complete. Incidentally, how do you know?”

“The Seers. Moreover, we do have contact with our brethren closer to the disaster zone.”

“Seers lie.”

“Not to… this extent.”

Jaeris left without further comment, walking back onto the Battle Barge.

“Captain?”

“Yes, Librarian Jekir?”

“You’re not actually going to return, are you?”

Jaeris responded by keeping his blank stare.

“Captain?”

“The seed of doubt, once planted, grows into a powerful tree. I doubt that there is indeed a Chapter war, but we must be prepared for anything. Librarian Koan Jekir, you did not see impending doom, yet you have been wrong before.”

“Captain Jaeris…”

“I doubt them. I really do. But this world needs us less than our own. The Warp is clear, and if we will return we should do so now. And we must return. I cannot win this with the knowledge that I might doom my Chapter and fail Kyras.”

“The idea has infected your mind, has it not?”

“Yes,” Kent admitted, “but I cannot do anything else. Doubt is a powerful contagion, and the ways of the Eldar are such that I doubt them. We will go back.”

* * *

The receding whispers of the Astartes were perfectly audible to Autarch Steiroel’s ears. The machines and armor of the mon-keigh whirred, and with their leaders the Blood Ravens began disengaging.

Steiroel left. This was not the time for action; getting rid of the Blood Ravens had been even easier than predicted, and it was now time to use the Warhost he led.

Still, there was something. The Librarian- Koan- had been too weak to discern the calamity about to befall his Chapter. Yet Jaeris had made the right choice nevertheless.

“Seers lie.”

He had been a Seer himself once. He hadn’t been very good at it, though: there was always the fear, not so much of the Warp as of failure. He was not perfect, and those above him were often even less so.

“Seers lie.”

But they did. Prediction of the future often hurt the Eldar more than it helped them. The same, of course, was true of the mon-keigh. Overconfidence and pride- they had been the downfall of the Empire.

The Empire that was now contained within the red eye, gazing at Steiroel between the stars. Red shadows seemed to move within it, a signal to any stargazers not to look any closer.

They had failed then. They had failed to realize the weaknesses of their own kind, of the gifts bestowed on them by the Old Ones.

“Seers lie.”

Steiroel pushed the thoughts away. Though it was unreliable, foresight was a great gift. Ulthwe was still the most powerful Craftworld, and it was led by Farseers. It was the Farseers that now steered the Autarch, after all.

Yet through all of it, the seed remained.


----------



## GregorEisenhorn (May 19, 2011)

VulkansNodosaurus said:


> _Here's my entry (and yes, I have the concept of "Contagion" as idea as well, though GregorEisenhorn took it first...)_


You snooze, you lose! :biggrin:


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Some great entries so far, thanks to all who have participated so far. To those of you that havebt, you've got another week left! If anyone needs an extension, PM me with a reason and I'll consider it. Get writing!


----------



## arumichic (May 14, 2011)

(Here's my first entry ever into anything with a short story, hope it's not too horrible for people's eyes  )

Salvation
Word count: 999
_________________

“What are you doing here?” a little voice spoke up from the back of her head. “You’re a one of pure heart, how did it come to this?”

“Oh shut up” she mumbled, ignoring the hollow feeling that kept on growing in the pit of her stomach and soul.

She kept shuffling along the dimly lit corridor, looking about nervously, trying to see if anyone saw her. Seeing no one there, she ducked around a corner until she stood face to face with it. She wouldn’t believe it till she saw it and even then it was almost too much for her. It took her breath away and she was left standing there looking at a great tapestry of the prophesy she had foreseen. It was woven masterfully with the deepest blues of the ocean and what seemed to be flowing streams of blood. Needless to say, it shook her to the core but still somewhere inside her something stirred; she grew excited and it scared her to death.

So it was true, it would eventually come to this…to the destruction of her own people…by her own hands. She still couldn’t believe it, she was born of humble origins, who was she that she would bring about this genocide? This was insanity. She ran away from the tapestry, not caring exactly where she was headed towards.

It felt as if she ran forever, figures and landscapes blurred past when she finally stopped, gasping for air, dread clutching at her chest. Catching her breath, she questioned herself. Where was she? She looked around the monstrous cavern, venturing a look here and there. She had never been here before in all her years. In fact, she had never even seen it on a map.

In the far side of the cavern, she found something that resembled an altar and upon it, a tome. There was no title upon the old and cracked leathery cover, so she rifled through the pages and found a copy of the tapestry she had seen and the caption, “Truth and Salvation” below it. She shivered, but there was just something about it that enticed her to read the volume. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” the little voice said, almost as if it was alluring her to stay and read.

Feeling rebellious, she replied, “If I shouldn’t be here, why did I find this place and why is this book conveniently here?”

“I warn you one my time my dear. After that, it’s out of my hands.” The voice echoed away at her conscience.

As she browsed the manuscript, she stumbled across a chapter titled “Salvation” and started reading in hopes of finding out how she might save herself and her kind from the fate they were given. She bumped her hand on the altar as she flipped a page and discovered a hidden panel upon it. In it, she found an armored gauntlet, skillfully crafted and converted into a weapon, with sharp fingertips and hidden blades, which was shown in the tapestry. She shivered at the image still seared into her mind. Still she kept reading the strange tome.

The truth as written in the book, was dreadful. Several centuries ago, her people had split from a main group after creating an abomination. Her people weren’t really dark or evil per say, as some groups had turned, but fell into the warp, leaving this abomination for other worlds to hopefully survive. It wasn’t right, no wonder her people deserved to die and it was prophesized. This new thought alarmed her. How could she ever think that?! No, she had to keep her thoughts pure. She couldn’t be swayed to start thinking that her people deserved it. She couldn’t fall to the thought.

“You know that’s what you really think. Are you going to punish them all?” The small voice in her had become stronger, after reading the volume it seemed, but she pushed the sinking feeling aside.

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t thinking about doing anything!” She proclaimed. In the back of her heart, she wished for her people to be punished. Didn’t they deserve it? They unleashed this monster and left innocent people to fend for themselves. How many had died trying to fight off this unknown power?

“I know what you’re thinking and feeling, because I’m the real you in the prophesy. I’ve been searching for someone like you; a pure and untainted one.” The voice rose to what would have been a smirk. “I’ve dwelled in you for a while now, and have grown stronger ever since you’ve picked up that tome.”

“Who are you? What are you?” She shrieked into the cavern, and it echoed eerily through it.

“Me? I’m the truth and the salvation of our world. They will all be punished as it is our will and fate.”

Her hand inched towards the gauntlet as if it had a mind of its own, and her eyes grew wide in fear. The thoughts and seeds of the prophesy as well as this unknown being, if it was a being, had spread through her mind, spreading until it slowly consumed her. All she could do was sit and watch herself turn into whoever it was. It was too hard to fight and her own feelings mingled in with this other being’s.

And now she understood. She rose from her seat with new purpose. She knew what she had to do and why this had been prophesized and why it had to be her. The purest of the pure had to be the one punishing the evil ways of her people. She donned on the gauntlet and allowed the newfound power and being surge through her. She felt invincible and that she was. The corner of her mouth turned upwards in a smirk and she stepped out of the darkness of the cavern into the light and live out her fate; the fate that was instilled and born within her…as a daemonette.


----------



## The_Inquisitor (Jul 19, 2008)

Ok, first post in months. I decided what better way to return than posting a new story. Here's my humble attempt. 

L.

Word count: 1100 words


+++​
_*CONTAGEON*​_
Tick...Tock...Tick...Tock...

Why the Prefectus had an antique clock on his office wall, The Stranger didn’t know. He did, however, know that it was running slow. The hypnotic ticking, whilst perfectly synchronized to an untrained ear, was ever so slightly off. The imperfection aggravated him. The Stranger knew that in a week, the clock would be fifteen seconds behind; in a month, a whole minute. And he knew that in a year from now, the Prefectus would arrive late to his tri-annual health inspection, and wonder why. The Stranger knew this because he was trained to know this. His mind had been prepared, engineered and instructed to notice the most diminutive details; those to which a normal mind was blind.

Had a trivial hab-worker or agri-farmer found themselves in his situation, waiting alone in an Administratum HQ Office, they would have seen the Prefectus’ intimidatingly large desk and been satisfied with what their eyes showed them. For The Stranger, with a scalpel sharp intellect bestowed upon him by the infamous _Cognitae_, the desk oozed details, ready to be absorbed, analysed and exploited. Constructed with Cerebran Hardwood, the desk was nowhere near as antiquated as the clock; but still old. The Stranger ran a finger across the desk’s pristine surface. Any carpenter worth his salt knew that “slow decomposition” was a highly beneficial trait of Cerebran Hardwood, making it perfect for the construction of furniture. Treated well, this desk would last for centuries. The man who invested in such a piece was a man of premeditation, a man who looked to the future, a schemer.

The Stranger’s spindly fingers danced over an indentation in the desk surface. A signature-mark was carved into the wood. Small but deliberate. On closer inspection it appeared to be a crest. But not just any crest. The cogs of The Stranger’s mind sprung into action, instantly accessing information acquired from an ancient artisan tome decades earlier. Page 372. The crest belonged to the venerable _Artifex-Majora_ of Rygel-VII, the most distinguished craftwork in the sector. Safe to say, this desk was a priceless masterpiece. The man who invested in such an item was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, a man eager to brandish his fortunes to any passerby, a man who surrounded himself with treasures instead of people.

Voices grew louder outside the office door. The Stranger, realising that company was imminent, turned his scrutiny to the desk one last time. The details presented themselves like a star-ship’s HUD, revealing the desk’s secrets to him and him alone.

A quill-pot sat on The Stranger’s left; simple deduction indicated the owner was right handed. 

The faintest of aromas hung the air. Malt-Amasec, vintage ’83. A good year. The Prefectus enjoyed a tipple, even at his post.

His mind raced on. 

Something miniscule on the floor glinted in the light, catching The Stranger’s eye. A bullet casing. Solid-slug. 37 Caliber. Concealable, one-shot pistol. No charring. Ejected, not fired.

The door suddenly burst open, snapping The Stranger out of his investigative flurry. A hefty man, who could only be the Prefectus, strolled in confidently. Obesity concealed by a flowing sanguine robe, the stocky figure ambled over to the desk, before slumping into his chair with an unflattering creak. Facing the lithe, well dressed Stranger, the Prefectus spoke apologetically in a throaty voice.

“Please excuse the delay. ‘Busy’ doesn’t describe the day I’m having.”

The Stranger smiled delicately, dropping into a well rehearsed Upper-Hive accent.

“It‘s of no inconvenience, Prefectus. I allowed my mind to wander for a while.”

The Prefectus, only half-listening, turned his attention to data-slates amassed on the desk. 

“Wonderful. How can the Administratum assist you today?” he asked without looking up.

“I believe the prudent question, Prefectus, would be how _I_ can assist _you_?”

The Stranger let the sentence hang, casually leaning back in his chair. The Prefectus stopped shuffling the data-slates, looking up to see a devious smirk on the stranger’s face. Realisation, that this was a person worthy of his undivided attention, dawned. 

“M-may I ask, to w-what you refer, sir?” the Prefectus enquired, stumbling over his words.

The Stranger delicately licked his lips, savouring the conversation about to unfold. When he spoke, it was with a soft gravitas, as unarming as it was authoritative. “Prefectus, let me speak with brevity; I’m aware you’re a...busy man. I am here to make you a unique proposition.” The Stranger removed a tiny data-wand from an inner-pocket, placing it upon the desk. He continued, “Four-years ago, a hacker of great skill and notoriety came to the attention of “important” people. His work was so ingenious that, rather than eliminate him, these “important” people decided to harness his abilities for their own....endeavours. Two-years ago, the aforementioned asset developed a virus. You know what a virus is, don’t you, Prefectus?”

The Prefectus swallowed, before nodding. The Stranger continued.

“Well, this virus was unlike anything else. Imagine if you will, a virus so potent that it organically spreads from system to system, server to server, cogitator to cogitator until it’s burned through every ounce of information on a planet. It was codenamed “CONTAGEON”, and believe me when I tell you this my friend, there is no defence.”

Like a slaughtered boar, the colour drained away from the Prefectus’ face.

“W-what’s this got to do with me?” he stammered nervously. 

“In less than 24 hours, you will discover CONTAGEON, incubated within your core servers. Without my help, you will lose...everything.”

The Prefectus’ hand moved under the table unsubtly, scrabbling for the concealed weapon at his hip. Elegantly, The Stranger leant forward, grabbed the Prefectus’ robe-lapels, and pulled down forcefully, brutally driving his forehead into the hardwood. The pistol skittered away harmlessly as the Prefectus groaned, slumped over his own desk. 

The Stranger leant back once again; it was as though he’d never moved. He spoke without a tremor of hostility. “My proposition is this. In twelve hours, once you discover the system is infected, you will transfer the sum of one-hundred-million crowns to _this_ account.” He slid the data-wand forward. “The transfer clears; you acquire the coding required to remedy the tragedy about to befall this world. No transfer: Game over.”

The Prefectus moaned unintelligibly.

“I await your decision.” 

The Stranger lifted himself up from the chair, striding confidently toward the exit.

“How do you know all this!?”

The Stranger looked back one last time. The Prefectus had lifted his head, blood trickling from his skull. The Stranger grinned triumphantly. 

“Because, my friend, I uploaded the virus to _your_ workstation five minutes before you entered the room. Good luck.” 

+++​


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Woo, more new faces!

25.5 hours left all, let's get to work!


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

In case there are any procrastinators out there... one hour left!


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Good story*

ThatOtherGuy-Fun story. I dont take near enough V.C. Loved the ending. :good:


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Wow*

Gothik-The misdirection of religious people not understanding the scriptures has led to more destruction than the wrath of a single ungodly man. This story shows that lesson fully. Real good post.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Great read*

The Inquisitor-Thanks to you I learned the value of editing my own work. This story is nigh-perfect. It is a good read and filled with detail that is to the senses as a sweet perfume. Good post.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Crazy!*

Andygorn- I could feel the confusion. I could feel the stress. I now have a true distaste and hatred for the Lord Commissar. A good peice of writing to get my emotions all stired up.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Good Post*

Boc- Good post. I had to look up Triumvirate. I read the story so fast that it ended abruptly as if I had slammed into a wall blindly. A real good post.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Kept me reading.*

Bane-of-Kings- Really good read. Had me confused for a sec. but quickly figured it out. You had me thinking that I was looking from the 'Good Guys' eyes until BAM!!! there it was. Lots of fun.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*W-o-w*

Svartmetall- The attention to detail was mesmerizing. Are you a doc in normal life? I could not stop reading as I was infected by the stories atributes. Great read!


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Enjoyable*

C'Tan Chimera- This was a very cool story. I had a blast reading it and could not stop. You edited very well too as I could not tell that anything was missing. Good Post.


----------



## The_Inquisitor (Jul 19, 2008)

@Adrian 

I'm sure I speak on behalf of everyone, when I thank you for your kind words. Glad you enjoyed. 

L.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*What a great story!*

Gregor Eisenhorn- Though the story was not about contagion as in sickness and disease, it was totally about contagion when it came to the properties of the mind. This was a good read.


----------



## C'Tan Chimera (Aug 16, 2008)

Heh, thank you Adrian- the editing process is often a royal pain for me, especially when I have to butcher parts of the story entirely so it helps to know it's not a total drawback.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Good Post*

VulkanNodosaurus- Doubt is a cruel mistress! This was a good story that was only slightly confusing as the persona flitted from the planet to the Blood Raven to the Eldar quite quickly. But after reading it S-L-O-W-L-Y I was able to get the grip of it. All in all I got the point and had some enjoyment reading it. Define the Characters a little more thoroughly and the story would be more easily understandable. All in all it was a good post.


----------



## ThatOtherGuy (Apr 13, 2010)

Humor ain't going to win this one, but thanks for the comment Adrian.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Well-Nuts!*

Arumichic- Sometimes to find ones fate is not a good thing as in the case of the girl. A scary tale of allowing the wrong things in and not being in controle of onesself leading to damnation. Good post.


----------



## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Where do I vote?*

Now that I've read all the stories where do I place my votes? I may just be missing it as is the story of my life.


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Voting can be done at this link.


----------



## gothik (May 29, 2010)

thankyou adrian much appreciated


----------

