# Diving Eagles [WIP]



## Zyke (Feb 15, 2008)

This is the beginning of a new story I'm writing. This is just the beginning so far. Comments are welcome. 

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The eagle glided through high planetary orbit, circling its prey, preparing to swoop down once it detected the hint of weakness. It glowed red as it prepared to begin the descent, its swept-back wings giving it the look of an eternal hunter. The land below glowed in nuclear fires and thick, black, dirty streaks of smoke made it look scarred, as if the planet itself was wounded. Once in a while, pinpricks of light burst into existence, followed shortly by large releases of energy. New scars popped into existence, at first only a few, and small ones. As time went by, they became more frequent, merging and forming and covering entire continents. 

Above, unaware of the eagle, mighty creatures of metal battled for control of the heavens. Weapons of energy that could destroy entire cities in a second were hurled across the void by the thousands. Brilliant lances of light and smaller dots of fire crossed from one creature to another, wrecking and killing, blotting out the stars themselves with their intense light. The creatures died by the hundreds, often in brilliant explosions of fire. Some were reduced to smoldering wreckage, spewing eggs as they died which fell to the surface below. But still there were many more, and the more that died the more intense the battle became. Dying creatures often made their last acts of defiance before succumbing to the fires, smashing themselves into their enemies with monumental power. 

Despite all of this, the eagle floated patiently, biding its time, for it held secrets of far too much value to risk by moving too soon. 



Aboard one of those creatures Admiral Mesn hunkered down behind the fallen piece of plating that had crashed down into the middle of the bridge and decapitated his weapons officer. His bolt pistol was clutched in his right hand, knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. In his left was a blood soaked chainsword. Beside him, a squad of naval troopers and other officers took cover, sporting similar weaponry. Scattered about the bridge were dozens more, each one preparing for death in his own way. Mesn’s uniform was covered in the blood of those less fortunate than himself. He was not a particularly large or muscled man, but no one would ever call him small or unfit. His face showed the strain of one who was in command of thousands of souls and streaks of blood running down from his short-cut white hair dripped off his chin. 

Beside him, a trooper poked his head above the plating and shouted. “Here they come!” Then there was a sudden concussion and the thick metal bridge doors were blown from their hinges. Mesn picked himself up and began firing into the breach. Those around him did the same and the screaming started. Men – if they could still be called that – were spewing through the entrance by the dozens. Many were cut down, but the torrent of bodies did not slow. They may have once been men, but were now something else entirely. They were dirty, bloody, many without clothing. Their bodies were scarred in every conceivable manner and in every place imaginable. Many were covered in body parts of the dead, and all wielded some sort of close combat weapon. Bloody knives, cleavers, axes; even just hunks of metal that were likely picked up in damaged passageways filled with debris. 

The air around him became choked with smoke and the smell of blood. The screaming of the dead and dying echoed throughout the chamber. Bodies clogged the doorway and they began using their own dead as cover while running towards the defenders. The enemies were cut down by the dozens, but still they came. Then the wall of bodies became too much, and the defenders could no longer shoot anything at more than a few feet away. Savage melees broke out as limbs were torn from bodies and knives and swords cut through flesh. 

Mesn was no longer a young man, but he was an experienced soldier. He weaved in and out of combat, slashing and stabbing with his chainsword. The rotors became clogged with blood and gore and he discarded it. An enemy warrior charged him and received a swift kick which shattered his knee. As he fell, two of Mesn’s fingers entered his eye socket and burst his eyeball. The admiral picked up the fallen warriors weapon, a crude but effective one handed axe. Two naval troopers stood beside him, locked in combat with a half dozen of the enemy. They were cut, bruised, bleeding out of a dozen wounds each. But they fought on, plunging combat knives into chests and slashing necks. Beside Mesn lay a wounded enemy warrior attempting to stand. The admiral promptly stamped his boot onto the man’s head and his face became one with the deck plate. 

The fight ensued for another fifteen minutes. Dozens if not hundred of the enemy fell, but so did many of the defenders. The bridge became slick with blood and it was hard to move without slipping. As the river of enemies charging through the breach gradually trickled down to nothing, a cheer went up. The bridge defenders had won. They were yelling, screaming, thrusting their weapons over their head in jubilation of their victory. Mesn was soaked in blood, his uniform in tatters, and he stood chin high as if this were any normal day. “Back to your stations! I want a situation report NOW!” 

Those of the bridge crew still alive ran back to their stations and the surviving guards started clearing away the mountains of bodies so they could clearly see the entrance to the bridge. As the admiral took up his place again reports started scrolling down his screen. His tactical officer turned his head to speak, “Sir, the traitors control most of the ship. Decks one through eighteen are overrun and there is intense fighting on decks nineteen through twenty one, twenty three, and twenty seven. Twenty two and every deck about twenty eight are exposed to space. More boarders are reported incoming. What should we do?” 

Mesn looked around. The soldiers around him stared back, his officers momentarily looking away from their station to hear his decision. They were beaten and bloody, and many of their comrades lay dead. All the same they believed in him, believed that he could still save them. Mesn knew better. He knew what had to be done. “Target the largest enemy ship in range you can find. Full power to engines. Initiate the self destruct. And may the Emperor be with us.” 

Outside the bridge shooting began again. There was a hum of a chainsword activating and the sound of heavy, armored boots falling on the deck. A sound came into the bridge. A heavy thud, as if a bolter firing. A moment later a large, armored warrior entered the bridge. He was huge, his armor completely coated in blood, chain sword raised high in the air. Skulls and bones hung from his shoulder pads, his chest plate, and his helmet. He stopped for a moment, what felt like an eternity. It made to speak.“Blood for the blood God!” Then the screaming began.




As the eagle watched on, it noticed one of the larger ships, a huge leviathan speeding into the heart of the enemy formation. Dozens of gun ports stuck out of its sides, most of them now silent. It was ablaze, hundreds of separate fires burning across its hull. Pieces of metal the size of buildings blew off as it sped by, and lances of pure light were punching holes through the entire ship. Projectiles from nearby ships slammed into it, rocking it like a boat caught in the tide. Even under these horrendous conditions it kept going, as if the ship itself refused to give up. 

The distance closed between it and its target, another ship of similar size and armament. Then there was no space left between them and they collided. Mere seconds later a new star was born in the middle of the battle, engulfing dozens of other nearby combatants. The star continued to grow as more ships fed the fire, before fading again into nothingness. It was also at this time that the eagle made its descent. 




Commander Daearn floated through the void, gently nudging his suit thrusters to avoid a piece of derbis that came a little too close. His own ship lay a few hundred meters away, waiting in place for his return and making its own periodic adjustments to avoid any piece of the billions of tons of metal that made space travel around Nyx a hazardous adventure. It’s said that a long time ago, thousands of years perhaps, a great battle had occurred above the planet. It was a conflict that had raged for months, both in space and on the ground. As a result, vast stretches of land on the planet were still uninhabitable. For hundreds of generations many believed that daemons and evil spirits lurked in orbit amongst the wreckage, just waiting for humans to return so they could feed on their souls. It was only now that the peoples of Nyx had mustered the courage to return to space. 

It was told in the legends that a great man called Mesn had led the forces of righteousness against the daemonic tide and their human lackeys. Mesn and all of his forces, as the stories claimed, only stopped the Enemy at the cost of millions of lives, and that Mesn himself had fallen, slain by an enemy daemon. But, by then, it was too late for the Enemy. Before the hero of Nyx was killed, he ordered his ship to smash into the enemy flagship, destroying it and dozens of others in the process. Afterwards, the Enemy was headless and confused. The defenders were able to gain the upper hand and vanquish the daemonic tide. The victory, however, was at a great cost. Of the defenders only a handful of ships remained, and of those all were damaged beyond repair. 

The armies on the ground had fared no better. Titanic explosions, now thought to have been nuclear weapons, had annihilated every population center and any large concentration of soldiers. The defense was waged on a thousand battlefields by tens of millions of men. The enemy advanced with the help of their daemon allies and won battle after battle. But the defenders did not falter, and would not yield. After the defeat of their space fleet, the daemons allies lost heart and fled. The remaining defending ships expended what ordnance they had left to destroy as many of the daemons as possible. Over the course of dozens of years, the remnants of the daemons allies were hunted down and destroyed. 

And so it was that just a few years ago that the people of Nyx returned to space. And, even then, many still thought it was a bad idea, one that might draw the Enemy back again to finish the job. Men like Commander Daearn would hear none of it though. They knew that the people could not remain on Nyx forever, and that the future was in the stars. 

A voice cracked over the radio, interrupting his thoughts. “Commander, this is Home. Respond please.”

“Home, this is Daearn. What can I do for you Home?” 

“We’re picking up an object moving towards you at a high velocity. Probably just a piece of debris moving towards you at a higher than normal orbital velocity. Be advised though that it is in your area.”

“Thanks for the heads up Home, I’ll take a look.” Daearn nudged his suits maneuvering jets to look around. He was surrounded by junk, for the most part. That was the point of his mission however, to inspect the wrecks in his little area of sky and see if there was anything of value still there. Not seeing anything particularly out of the ordinary, he floated over to a small wreck. It was a large container like piece of a ship, rectangular and enclosed on all but one side. 

Daearn guided his suit into the entrance and activated his helmet mounted light beam. The wreck was, well, a mess. It probably used to be a piece of a hangar deck, though it was almost impossible to tell. Pieces of metal jutted out of places where they assuredly shouldn’t have, and the walls were coated with the odd stain of red. He tried not to think of what that likely was, instead concentrating on the wonders around him. What were mostly some control terminals jutted out of the deck at places, and mechanical devices whose function he could only dream of surrounded him. 

He moved over to one of the consoles and maneuvered around to what he was pretty sure was the front. A blank screen with an assortment of control levers and buttons stared back at him. Tentatively he stuck out his arm, held his breath, and pressed one in. Nothing happened. Not that he particularly expected something to, but it was worth a shot. 

“Home, this is Daearn. I’ve entered one of the wrecks. Everything seems to be offline…what next?”

“Do you see anything interesting? We want to get as much as we can. We’re recording everything you see, but you’re there, not us.” There was a brief hiss of static. “Do you see that arm-like machine over on the other side of the deck? I thought I saw something a little…I don’t know, out of place.”

“I see it Home. Moving over to check it out.” As he got closer he started to notice the details of the arm. It was jointed about midway up, and then again at the end which led to a two pronged claw. Daearn surmised it was likely used for moving heavy objects, probably for loading ammunition, assuming this actually was a flight deck. He wormed his way through a maze of metal splinters, little bursts of air lancing out from his suit thrusters as he went. 

“Commander, this is Home. What the hell is that?”

“Command, what the hell is wha-…” He turned up his light and swept it across a shadow that just seemed out of place. What he saw left him speechless. In the shadow was a giant space suit, shaped in a way that definitely was not human. It was bipedal in nature, with two long legs and two arms. But the legs were too long, and the arms too short for it to be human. Its torso seemed misshaped and through the faceplate Daearn could see a face that was covered in tight red skin and a mouth full of fangs. The thing locked its burning red eyes with him. Daearn hit his thrusters to maximum burn, making for open space. He weaved in and out of the maze of metal, narrowly avoiding colliding with a steel beam that probably could have impaled him. 

After what felt like an eternity he hit open space. He forgot to breathe. Outside now were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of ships. Vessels of all types of shapes and sizes stared back at him, no two being alike. Some were lean, deadly looking things covered with spikes and blades. Others were bulbous, bloated objects that made the ship itself look diseased. Yet others were sleek, almost beautiful ships and more were small but, based on the shape, fast and stealthy. The one thing they all had in common was that they felt…wrong. The only thing Daearn wanted to do was vomit. But he couldn’t do that in his suit. With an immense urge of willpower, he flew back to his ship as fast as he could, heedless of the dangerous pieces of wreckage and debris around him.


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