# The Gauntlet [BFG]



## mcflurry (Feb 4, 2009)

*The Gauntlet

'Without strength, anything you have or make can be taken from you.'

Renius, from Emperor: The Death Of Kings​*
1: Ambush
2: The Yards
3: Escort Duty
4: Navigation
5: Ensigns
6: Unfinished Business
7: Torpedoes At Dawn
8: The Kill
9: Ravensburg, Junior
10: Captain Holt
11: Reclaimer
12: Engagement
13: Fatal Error
14: Steel Fist



*1​*

The fleet slipped out of the warp, fourteen ships appearing from a tear in reality itself. One sped away faster than the others,barely pausing after bursting from the ether. The ship was sleeker than most of the others, but still retained the telltale bulge that marked it as a cargo ship. Of the convoy of merchant vessels, only the Jairus was armed- very lightly- and as such, was chosen to lead the group, scouting out the void ahead. The systems were no longer safe for unarmed ships- raids from the Eye of Terror had increased, tides of warp-spawned filth and corsair fleets burning and pillaging all they came across. The ships of Battlefleet Gothic were spread too thin to spare any warships to guard a merchant convoy.

The Jairus’ white-hot wake cut a steady course away from the main group, approaching the nearby system of planets. The fifth from the star, Delphi, was inhabitable and Captain Garth of the Jairus longed to see his family. The ship slowed as it approached the furthest planet in the system, an icy ball of rock and metal.

Garth turned from the bridge and cast his eyes towards where other ships had view-plates. The Jairus had several huge displays, linked to pict-sensors on the outer hull. From the outside the Jairus looked blind, but the extra Imperial Garth paid ensured that the ship had better eyes than any other. A flicker caught his yellow eyes and he craned in his seat for a better view, painfully moving many of the cables running into the interface plugged into the back of his head. Sweat ran off the leather, Garth having not left the chair for a few months. The last time he’d been out was when the Jairus left Dimmamar with a cargo of religious materials from the Ecclesiarchy.

Garth had hated the zealots. Yes, he believed in the Emperor, and prayed daily, but there was no reason to run round sobbing and whipping yourself. The warp had flared after leaving, and the Jairus had to divert, costing Garth four days and probably a million in Imperial. Still, it was the price he paid for not being restricted to sublight ferry duties.

The navigation officer broke his idle thoughts. “Sir, Delphi should be coming into visual range now.”

Cheers broke from the crew as the news was relayed ship-wide, and Garth allowed himself a small smile. It would be good to see home.

“Vox, get me the fleet.”

Garth saw the uplink connecting in his mind. Runes and icons flashed across his retina, a million streams of data on the Jairus, from the critical to the purely irrelevant. He saw everything, wired in as he was to the ship. The Jairus may have been a beast of steel and plastics, but it had a human heart.

“You have the vox, sir.”

Garth straightened in his command chair and smoothed his tunic, as if the fleet could see him. Much of the crew still smirked at their captain's habit, but Garth ignored them.

Garth cleared his throat and began to speak, “This is the merchant ship Jairus. We are about to enter visual range of Delphi. We’re home.” He allowed happiness to creep into his last sentence.

“What’s that sir?”, asked navigation, pointing out of the windows at Delphi. Garth began to look but was distracted by another voice. Frustrated, he sat back in the chair.

The sensors officer sounded scared, “Sir, if you’ll look at frequency 87.114B.”

Garth mentally called up the auspex grid. Something was not right. A flicker danced across the array for a moment, before vanishing. Almost reminded Garth of cloaking units he'd seen some of the Rogue Traders in the Calstar system using. “Vox. Message to fleet. Message begins: All ships hold position, Jairus going to investigate auspex readings at carom 56, bearing 42.78. Message ends.”

“Aye sir, message transmitted.”

“Helm,” said Garth warily, “Take us in. This is odd.” He thought he saw a shadow of a ship disappearing behind Delphi 9, and dismissed it. But the sight refused to leave, causing a nagging tug in his gut.

“What’s that, sir?” Navigation asked again.

“What?” grunted Garth testily. His anger faded into horror. He'd only ever seen a signal like that once before, when he'd been attacked by Chaos pirates in his third year of command. “Sensors, get me long range picts on that auspex signal! Bridge, condition one!”

The ship bustled as the danger level rose to its highest. Bulkheads were closed and escape pods dusted off. Cargoes were secured and the crew armed themselves with naval shotguns from the nearest arms locker.

“Condition one set sir!” reported the first mate, eyes scanning the screens before him.

“Engines, ready for full astern,” said Garth, sweating nervously. He was even more troubled when he noticed a slight trace of a plasma wake, disappearing around the planet.

“Sir! Picts are in!” cried the sensors officer. Garth frantically pulled the images up and his heart- and the ship’s- missed a beat.

“Throne…” whispered Garth, terrified. He quickly recovered and began to act. “Engines, full astern! Vox, get message out to the convoy! Chaos fleet around Delphi! Count stands at three cruisers and a capital ship! Run!” Garth screamed the last word at the top of his voice.

The bridge was in chaos. Garth only caught one call from Sensors.

“Enemy launching torpedoes! Cruiser coming about to broadside us, and…”, the officer paused in fear.

Garth snapped. “What is it boy, or do you want to be put out the airlock?” he thundered, and the deck rumbled with him.

“The capital ship is coming about!”

The captain looked at the fear etched in the young man’s face and made a fatal choice.

“Engines, belay that order! Full ahead!” The ship had a few cannons on the sides to fend off pirates and some turrets, but they hadn’t been used for years. “Run out the guns and divert power to the shields!”

If the Jairus didn't try and fight, the convoy would be caught and killed before they could jump out of the system. A suicide mission, but they would achieve more in death- fleeing would let the rest of the convoy get caught by the Chaos ships

A chorus of ayes met his order and Garth set his jaw. The sensors officer spluttered something, and deeply regretted it.

“Sir! That’s suicide! Why don’t we just run?” he managed to say.

Garth said nothing. Instead he reached down to his leg, brought up his pistol and shot the man in the head. On another day, he would have simply had the man thrown in the brig, but in the face of the enemy he demanded complete obedience from his crew. A moment's hesitation could have all of them trying to breathe what wasn't there.

“Sedition is a capital offence! Does anybody else want to question my orders? Good.”

The crew quickly looked back at their stations and doubled their work rate. The sensors officer’s subordinate, now spattered in his superior’s blood, reported. “Sir, we’ll pass between the capital ship and the nearest cruiser at this heading!”

“Excellent,” said Garth flatly. His mission was almost over. The convoy was behind him, frantically cycling up their cooling warp engines. It would take far too long to get them ready before the chaos fleet was on them. In Garth's choice, there was a chance the others could make it away.

The Jairus was closing fast with the Chaos fleet, leaving a wake of superheated plasma from its engines. The torpedoes launched from the cruiser had flown wide, and the second cruiser had pushed past the first to close for the kill, with the capital ship in tow. As they closed, Garth shut down the pict-sensors in horror. The Chaos ships were more like sickening blobs of vomit, floating altars to the Plague God. Horrific spores floated around the ships like a miasma, and Garth nearly lost his dinner as he saw the wakes of the enemy- pus leaking from the ‘engines’ of the ships. Closing, the weapons officer barked something about readiness.

There was silence as the three ships drifted past each other. No noise, just the hum of the Jairus' plasma drives and the breath of the crew. It would be serene if not for the horrors beyond the view ports. Seconds passed. More. Garth prayed for his own life, the ship’s, and the souls of his family. No hope for them. If they were on Delphi, they were dead. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek as he envisioned the door of his hilltop house opening, and his smiling wife and children rushing out to greet him, and gasping as he would give them a souvenir from his latest trip. Sorrow turned into anger. Anger turned into hate and Garth’s gaunt face turned into a mask of rage.

“Fire!” barked Garth.


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## waltzmelancholy_07 (Sep 30, 2008)

Good story mate... :victory:


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## Rafen (Oct 21, 2008)

Amazing simply amazing (^_^);


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## mcflurry (Feb 4, 2009)

Cheers! I reward your love with chapter 2 

*2*​

To those that were not looking, it was just another nebula. To those that were, they would notice a huge energy signature emanating from its centre. For inside the vastness of the clouds, the Orion Shipyards drifted in peace around the gases nearest the 'centre'. The shipyards were little more than a central spine, with berths branching off. A maze of cranes and small repair craft darted around the yards, like drones guarding the hive.

The yard’s owner, Maximilian Escher, was now toiling in the gun bays of one of Orion's patrons, the Advantage. Escher had been displeased when the Navy cruiser turned up with a tow fleet and orders to commandeer the docks, dragging them out of the main shipping lanes and into the nebula. And it had been a poor idea to punch Captain Hawkes in the face after having his complaints rebuked. It had brought up a nasty mark on the captain's lean face, with a black bruise around his green eye. But that had been weeks ago, and they'd faded into nothing.

Captain Lucas Hawkes grinned as he recalled the incident, rubbing where Escher’s fist had hit his stubbly jaw. Poor Max had not done too well mixing with the scum of the Imperium. He had come sobbing to his deck officer, professing his remorse and begging to be taken out of the bays. Instead Escher earned a double shift as punishment for weakness.

As much as Hawkes would like to reminisce, more pressing matters were at hand. The Advantage was powering back up after an extensive refit, involving much of the port side being replaced. That encounter with the Murderous Hate had not gone well for the Lunar-class cruiser, but when the Advantage left the Hate was drifting helplessly towards a star, engines shot out by his starboard broadside.

Hawkes sat up in his chair, pushing away the unused interface cables. He had never used the uplink. His argument had been that he could captain a ship without being plugged in to the damn thing, like some kind of servitor. Naturally this had caused a stir with the Mechanicus representatives back on Port Maw, when they had tried to get him stripped of rank for techno-heresy. If he hadn’t come top of his Academy classes, and had an admiral not tired of the half-machines, he would have been down in the gun bays with the other poor b’stards. Admiral Crassus just gave him the Advantage and a destination. “It’ll all be forgotten about,” he had reassured.

The vox rang and his Vox Officer identified the call. “Engines, sir.”

“Put them through,” said Hawkes, picking up the receiver from his chair arm. “Go ahead Engines.”

“Aye sir. One of the generators has blown a conduit and we can’t raise the power threshold until it’s fixed.”

“Repair it.” Hawkes knew it would be fixed soon. His crew wanted to work, which always worked better than having to use the damned Commissars. Hawkes feared and hated the stormcoated terrors in equal measures. The b'stards could have anyone on the ship executed on a whim. He pulled a console down, its metal armatures unfolding to grant it the reach. “Power at 32%,” mused Hawkes. He glanced at a diagram of the ship, different sections divided off. Most were red, and a few green. Power had been restricted to essential systems during the refit, and much of the ship was in darkness. The quartermaster estimated over 4000 Guard-issue lamp packs had been got through in the weeks the Advantage had been in the yards.

“Captain, Engines reports power threshold raised to 48%. Forward compartments powered up, bringing prow batteries online.” said the Ship’s Officer, an unremarkable-looking man called Holt.

“Prow batteries charging up," a slight pause. "Forward guns ready.” followed on the Weapons Officer, tapping furiously at his console.

Hawkes smiled inwardly at the diagram of the ship. Soon they’d be fully operational and could leave the damned yards, and the endless monotony of the refit behind.

“Sir, incoming message from perimeter station Theta! Priority One!” said Vox Officer Quinn, unsure of what to make of the high priority. The look on his face was one of complete confusion.

Hawkes was alert now. Priority One was usually only reserved for distress calls or early warnings. He dearly hoped it was a distress call. “Mr. Holt, get on to Engines. Tell them I want full power in five. Helm! Prepare for evasive manoeuvres. Set condition one!” ordered Hawkes in an even voice. The priority of the message alone disturbed him.

The relaxed attitudes of the crew vanished, and concerned muttering overtook the ship.

“Vox, play message!”

“Perimeter station Theta to Orion! Long-range scanners detect enemy vessel approaching, unknown size and class. Code red! Co-ordinates are carom 90, bearing 17.4! All ships begin jump preparations!”

Disbelief overtook the bridge. How could this ship have found the docks?

Hawkes was shocked, but he hid it. It would not do for morale. Instead, he began to think of a plan. The enemy ship would come from above the nebula, diving straight down towards the shipyards. It would be able to unload its prow weapons into the central trunk and hit the ships from above, where there was little firepower. It would probably stop and fall sideways, better to fire its broadsides at the helpless vessels beneath it. “Get the guns online now!”

After a few strained moments, the Sensors Officer broke through the hubbub, “Sir, coming down at us from above! Range 3000 kilometres, no course deviation!” 

“Captain! I have Engines on the line!”

“Put them through!” Hawkes was worried. If they didn’t get power before the enemy vessel got in range, they’d be ruined. And being the only Navy ship at the docks; the other ships would be annihilated where they were berthed.

“Sir!” came the voice of Chief Paro, crackling with traces of static, “We’ve fixed the conduit! Full power in a few seconds!”

“Excellent work Chief,” replied Hawkes, genuinely pleased. He stroked his stubbly chin and sat back in the chair, letting the soft padding welcome him in. “Sensors! Do we have an identification?”

“Aye sir! It’s a Styx class heavy cruiser!” reported Sensors Officer Detrick, not looking up from the screens surrounding the rim of the Sensors pit. “Enemy weapons coming into range now!”

“Power at 100%!” shouted Ship’s Officer Holt, turning and glancing at his captain.

“Helm! Roll 90 degrees to port! Divert power to starboard shields! Run out the guns!” barked Hawkes. Secretly, he hoped he had not left it too late.

The Weapons Officer shouted, “Starboard batteries ready!”

“Very good, Mr. Ryker! Salvo fire, set range. Fire at will!”

It was a sight to behold. The Advantage rolled in its berth onto its port side and began blasting at the Chaos cruiser, which desperately began to try and bring its heavier broadside to bear. Streams of shells pumped out of the Advantage’s cannons, and even though most flew wide, the withering hail ripped into the prow of the enemy. The explosive rounds made a mockery of the armoured prow, some penetrating deep before exploding. It was a bizarre experience, bursting gouts of flame and explosions in the abject silence of the vacuum.

Hawkes knew it was critical to do as much damage now, before the enemy cruiser brought its superior broadside to bear. It was halfway through its turn, and Hawkes barked an order to intensify the fire.

At last, the Chaos vessel swung round, guns blazing at the docks. The shipyards took the worst of the hits, those patrons that were spaceworthy running, breaking the cables that moored them.

“Helm! Get us out of the docks!”

The Advantage fell down, putting the docks between it and the Styx-class. 

Hawkes was about to give an order when the Sensors pit interrupted him. “Sir! Thirteen ships just jumped in-system!”

“Identify!” barked Hawkes without thinking. He was busy glancing at screens and trying to conduct an engagement.

“Sir! Identified as merchant convoy Gamma-Six Nine Four! Unarmed!” replied the Sensors pit after a few moments.

“Vox! Raise that convoy and tell them to run!” Hawkes did not need an extra objective- he was already far too busy keeping the Styx at bay.

The shipyards had emptied, with a few stragglers trying to break their moorings. Hawkes saw one ship, the Ventulus, get tangled in the mooring cables, when the derricks and cranes alongside its berth broke away and crushed down on it, pinning the Ventulus into the side of the berth.

A series of explosions racked the starboard side of the Advantage, shaking the whole ship.

“Damage report!” shouted Hawkes. If any of the guns had been badly damaged, an already inferior broadside would become inadequate. Floating through space as a frozen corpse did not appeal to Hawkes, and he doubted any of the crew wanted to explore that career path.

“No structural damage! Deck Five’s gun bays One through Six are damaged with fire. Venting compartments!”

As the atmosphere escaped from the gun bays, the fire died along with countless press-ganged gun crews. Hawkes barely gave them a second thought. The price paid for saving the ship.

“Get those bays re-manned!”

Hawkes turned, only to snap back round at a call from Sensors.

“Sir, enemy vessel is disengaging!”

Cheers went up from the bridge. The Helm called out, “Orders, sir?”

The whole bridge staff turned to look at their captain, eyes eager and hungry at the prospect of running the Chaos ship to the ground. Hawkes sat for a few seconds, deliberating. Although the kill would boost morale, someone had to marshal the despondent merchant ships idling on the fringes of the combat zone and lead them to safety. At least one ship, the Emperor’s Deliverance, was carrying Navy shells and munitions to Port Maw to sate the ferocious appetite of Battlefleet Gothic.

“Sorry boys,” began Hawkes, noting the crestfallen looks of his crew, “Somebody’s going to have to escort them to Port Maw,” he finished, gesturing to the ships gathering into a loose formation.

After a few moments, Ship’s Officer Holt said, “Aye sir,” barely masking the disappointment in his voice.


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## mcflurry (Feb 4, 2009)

*3*​

Holt jogged along the corridors of the Advantage, sheets of paper clutched tightly in his hand. To get to the captain's cabin Holt had had to come down six decks and a mile towards the bow. Hawkes had demanded manifests and information on all vessels now relying on the Advantage for protection, from cargo to class, engine size, maximum speed and crewmembers.

Composing himself, Holt straightened his fleet work uniform and rapped twice on the door. The green light winked on from the wall, and Holt entered. He skirted the dining table in the middle of the room, careful not to touch it.

“Captain, I’ve brought the manifests you asked for,” said Holt officially, saluting.

Hawkes was reclined in a large, comfy-looking armchair in the corner of the room, surrounded by star maps and navigational tools. Holt never quite had the measure of his captain. He seemed a solitary man, content with only his charts and readouts for company. He envied the captain’s luxury, and the smell of good food wafted out from the captain’s personal galley. Even though officer’s rations were like gold dust to the ratings, the captain’s food was godlike.

Holt caught his captain's shift in demeanour as he noticed his s unease, and engaged him in conversation, before Holt could start drooling at the delicious aromas.

“Thank you, Mr. Holt.”

“If that’s all sir, I’ll be on my way. Dinner’s about to be served in the wardroom,” said Holt, making for the door.

“No, you’re not, Holt. Pull up a seat. I’m sure you’ll find poached pheasant quite a delicacy. Besides, I need someone to question my ideas,” said Hawkes congenially, gesturing to the small table in the middle of the room.

Such an offer caught Holt off-guard. What should he do? Politely refuse or obey eagerly? His captain was a funny man. One minute a virtual loner, next he was offering dinner to whoever crossed his hatchway.

Hawkes grinned wolfishly, enjoying the confused air of his Ship’s Officer.

“Thank you sir,” replied Holt uneasily, sitting uncomfortably in what was actually a well-cushioned chair. Hawkes stood and walked over to the table, sitting casually in the opposite seat.

“Let’s see our fleet then,” he said hungrily, and Holt passed him the wad of yellowed Navy paper. “I take it you’ve already read this?”

“Yes sir,” answered Holt formally, still looking like he had a lasgun pressed to his back. It had been a long ride to the captain’s quarters, and Holt made note to memorise any important documents, should his captain question him. 

“Interesting bunch we have,” mused Hawkes. Something in the notes caught his eye and he arched a brow in curiosity. “This is the group that arrived at the Orion yards yesterday?”

Holt leaned over the table to see, “Aye sir, they report one ship missing. A cargo freighter called the Jairus. Said they were destroyed in the Delphi system during a Chaos ambush. The Jairus went against a much larger force to ensure the escape of the other ships.”

“Brave men.”

The tension across the table was palpable. Holt was uncomfortable simply being at the table, let alone talking to the captain one-on-one.

Hawkes made to speak, but a little bell cut him off, its angelic jingling echoing through the cabin.

“Dinner is served,” remarked Hawkes as two immaculately turned-out waiters brought out the first course. It was an extraordinary soup, and Holt greedily gulped it down. Hawkes smiled at the man’s appetite. He spoke between mouthfuls of bread, still discussing what they had available.

“I think we should just head to Port Maw with them, and let them rejoin some of the other convoys there,” said Holt, picking up another bread roll.

“Wouldn’t be smart,” began Hawkes, swallowing some soup, “the Deliverance is carrying munitions that Battlefleet Gothic needs at the rendezvous. I read its objective- offload cargo at fleet staging post and return to PM for subsequent supply runs.”

Both men sat in silence for a while, quietly contemplating their options. The main course was brought out, poached pheasant with a white dressing and some salad. Holt looked like he’d seen the Emperor himself and Hawkes thought he would loll backwards and fall.

"We should destroy the slower ships. Transfer their crew and cargo to the others and we'll make faster time."

"Sir, all the ships are full as they are. There's no space for any movement of cargo."

"Put the priority cargo in the faster ships. Jettison the unneeded baggage and destroy the ships."

Holt nearly choked. This was his Navy, the defenders of humanity, who protected space from the alien and the traitor. "Captain, you're suggesting genocide!"

"It's logical."

"It's damned immoral!"

Hawkes seemed to relent, lost in his own conflicting thoughts. They both ate in silence for a short while, until Holt decided to break the silence. “So sir, you intend to escort these freighters through the Gothic sector and into the Cadian gate?”

“We’ll have to. I’m not going to cut them loose, half would be destroyed or captured within a day,” said Hawkes, gently cutting the medium-rare pheasant and spearing some salad. “Anyways, how are you Holt? Still with that Munitorum rep?”

Holt seemed taken aback by the notion that the captain knew. The notion that the captain cared was even more odd. But then again, with a crew of twenty thousand, rumours spread like wildfire.

“I’m sorry sir, I know the Navy’s stance on fraternisation,” Holt trailed off uneasily.

Hawkes cut him off. “Holt, she’s a rep. Not part of the crew. Regulations ban crew from relationships, but as she’s a guest on this ship, my hands are tied. Besides, in these times we all need a little enjoyment.” He smiled as he saw the embarrassed flush fade from Holt’s face. He’d wondered why his Ship’s Officer had been so uptight in the last few months.

Dessert was some kind of frozen milk dish. The chef swore it was delicious, and he’d picked it up on some hive world from another cook. It was quite good, decided Hawkes, even if a little cold. It kept melting in the dish, and eventually ended up as a drink. Holt didn’t have the same problem- he’d guzzled his in complete glee almost as soon as it was put before him.

“You liked that!” scoffed Hawkes, noticing the empty dish opposite.

Holt dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and excused his speed and ferocity. “It’s just a new high, sir. I thought officer’s rations were good!”

Hawkes laughed, “How do you think I feel when I eat with the Admiralty?”

Lucas Hawkes really was a strange man, thought Holt, laughing politely.

The conversation eventually turned to careers, and Holt listened carefully for any hint to his captain's behaviour.

"I was born to a good family, not rich but not poor. My father was in the Navy, a petty officer. Never saw much of him. I grew up on Port Maw, in Navy accomodation that overlooked the dockyards. I could sit for hours and stare at the ships being built, all the effort that went into them. My mother was a brilliant woman, apparently. Until I was born. She lost her mind. My father came home from the ships and realised he'd lost his wife. She surfaced sometimes, for a few golden hours, before she regressed to stupidity.
My father was killed when I was fourteen. On this ship, actually. In the cabin next to this one. Some b'stard rating slit his throat because he stopped a gambling ring."

Holt noticed how his captain's knuckles whitened slightly. Hawkes was quite drunk now, otherwise he probably wouldn't have opened up so easily.

"My uncle took care of me for a little while. Put me in the Academy at fifteen. I did alright there. I was good at the academic work, but since I cared for my mother I had few friends. I was punched up a few times, bullied. Came top of the class, with honours. Got this ship, and the rest you know."

"Why this cabin?"

Hawkes looked like he was going to cry. Holt immediately regretted the question.

"Sometimes, I think I can feel him walking the corridors, or in the mess, or sleeping next," Hawkes stopped abruptly and Holt realised he had pushed too far. Damn. Now his captain was drunk and reminiscing his father's death, in the cabin next door to his murder. And Hawkes thought he lacked social skills?

Holt left his captain to weep at the table, reliving events far beyond his control, where the might of a Lunar-class cruiser was powerless to help him.


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## mcflurry (Feb 4, 2009)

*4*​

The Navigator’s chapel was shielded from the rest of the bridge by a metal iconostasis, the outer side painted with murals of the Emperor triumphant. Gold leaf and the finest litanies, purchased from the myriad preachers on Port Maw, adorned what was at base, a blast door.

Inside was a different story. Incense burners filled the room with the smell of candlewax, a hundred hanging from every alcove and shelf. It was a serene room, free from the bustle of ship life, somewhere for the Navigator to retreat into, to free her body from the toil of reality, and focus on the Chaos her third eye looked upon.

The only thing out of place in the sacred chamber was the presence of a large boltgun, part of the chair, levelled at the spot where the Navigator’s head would sit. It was controlled by a mystical device, which monitored the Navigator for signs of daemonic possession. If it passed a certain level, the gun would fire and the threat was terminated.

Navigator Kyra Oshan smirked mentally as she recalled the captain’s name for the massive weapon pointing at the left side of her head. ‘A failsafe.’ Chastising herself for the distraction, she focused on the realm no other could see, her own secret window onto the face of insanity itself. She could see, through her unblinking third eye, the infernal majesty and brutality of the immaterial dimension. Emotions roiled around her projected form, anger flitting past her right leg. She could feel love, fleeting and momentary, dart across her wrist. But there was another feeling, something ominous. Something sentient. And it was coming, coming for her soul that burnt like a beacon across the Empyrean, and it was so close.

Kyra Oshan had caught the attention of a daemon, and now she was in trouble. On one side of the coin, possession and damnation. On the other, a blessed bolt to the head. Two brilliant choices. Kyra began to mentally intone the Litany of Warding, hoping its chant would dispel the daemon. It failed, the hungry warp-thing pushing tendrils into her mind.

“Fear me, daemon. Fear what powers I possess!” she commanded, mind racing with panic. Her attacker sensed this, and punched another tendril into her mind. Kyra grabbed it and tore it from the beast, hurling it far into the oblivion that was their arena. The daemon licked its lips, shape finally settling into a blood-soaked, brutal mask of rage. Horns spiralled out from its head, and its face morphed into a bull-like visage.

Click.

Kyra could smell the rage emanating from it, the blood dripping from its grotesque form. She imagined the boltgun clicking over as the psychic device attached to it spiralled towards the firing catch.

Click.

With one last gasp, she punched at the thing with all of her strength, screaming every protection hymn and prayer she knew, at once in a cacophony of anathema to the daemon. She smiled as it cried, shrivelling slightly at the name of the Emperor. She continued to chant, hoping the words would send the denizen scurrying away in terror. She’d only ever come that close to possession once before, and only the intervention of a Librarian had saved her then.

Roaring, denied its prey, the daemon flitted away, not once taking its malevolent gaze from the Navigator. “We are not finished here, warp-breed. I will have your soul to pay,” hissed the daemon as it left her.

Kyra woke from her trance with a start. The boltgun’s muzzle pressed against her head, the cold steel reminding her she was in the material realm. She quickly wrapped the soft cloth bandana around her forehead, binding it tight. Anyone looking into her mutation would die instantly. It had made quite a good weapon on several occasions.

Hearing a slight rap on the iconostasis, the retainers protecting the Navigator slid the door open, letting her step out from the sanctuary onto the bridge of the Advantage.

She looked visibly shaken, and her trembling hand caught the glances of many officers. She instinctively gripped the offending limb and hurried away, saying, “Tell the captain the warp is too rough to travel.”

***


“What does she mean, too rough?” asked Holt in disbelief. He was sat with the Navigation Officer in the wardroom on Deck Four, escaping the day with a bottle of amasec and fleet rumours. The soft whine of the engines, which was present throughout the ship, was masked by droning hymns from an Ministorum-approved player in the corner.

“Don’t know. Rumour has it that something went for her on the other side, really shook her up.”

Holt scoffed and sipped the amasec. It was true- it did get better after six snifters! “So we’re slugging it out here, a week away from the Gate and with Chaos ships prowling everywhere?”

“Looks like it. Still, at least out here I can chart a course. I’ll tell you another thing, I’d rather be out here than in there with the enemy,” said Darl, the slight Navigation Officer, as he poured more of the amasec from the nearly empty bottle. He stifled a yawn and slipped slightly, the bottle hanging slack in his hand.

“Why’s that then, eh?” asked Holt, the alcohol finally filtering into his brain. A slight slur betrayed him.

“Well, apparently the Enemy has daemons piloting their ships, so they can go through the ether with pinpoint accuracy,” answered Darl, careful to hush the word ‘daemon’. It wouldn’t do to have the Commissar interrogating them both.

“Really?”

But Darl had already fallen asleep.
***


“Navigation! Set course for Fleet rendezvous! And where is Darl? His shift isn’t finished!” Hawkes ordered, tinges of irritation building in the last question. He’d already had Darl flogged twice for drinking on duty, and he’d sworn number three would be a trip to the Commissar.

Putting the matter from his mind, Hawkes continued down to the flight bays. A shuttle from one of the freighters was coming over with ‘some special cargo’. He was puzzling over the cryptic phrase as the ship clocks ticked over onto night, Terran time. Lights dimmed and the whole vessel took on a sombre look.

Hawkes was early for the shuttle. He arrived to see the lander awkwardly manoeuvre into the hangar, and strode down onto the bay. The deck crew saluted badly. Their captain rarely came down onto the flight decks, preferring the bridge and other command positions. Hawkes let the salutes slide. Pomp and ceremony had no place in a warzone.

The rear door of the lander slid down. There was no smoke or steam, just the low whine of the hydraulic pistons and the clicking of gears.

A man stepped out. Well-dressed, thought Hawkes. Probably a captain. His musings were confirmed when he noticed the captain’s epaulettes on the tunic shoulders.

The civilian saluted. His was even poorer than the deck crews’, but the gist of it was there.

“Captain, I’ve brought the special cargo.”

Straight to the point, Hawkes thought. I like him. “What is it?” he asked.

The captain made a gesture with his hand and around a hundred figures trooped out of the lander. Hawkes looked in disbelief.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”


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## mcflurry (Feb 4, 2009)

Any reviews/criticism?


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## mcflurry (Feb 4, 2009)

*5*​

A single bead of sweat rolled down Ciro’s rugged face, leading a winding path along the contours of his forehead, before dangling tauntingly on the tip of his nose. He flicked it away and continued with the weights. As the Master at Arms, he headed the ship’s marines, all five thousand of them. Armed with naval shotguns and some heavier weapons, they stood guard throughout the ship, ready to repel boarders. They also acted as ship’s military police, sorting disputes with shock-poles and keeping order amongst the scum of the ratings.

The ship's gymnasium was for officers only, and the ornately decorated room did not mesh with the cold steel of the gym equipment, which looked raw and savage in comparison to the refined decor. The whiff of sweat permeated the air. The smell of fitness.

“You know it’s a better workout on the runner.”

Ciro put the weight back on its stand, grunting with the effort. A sturdy, strong man, he was also possessed of a cunning intellect and a mind for tactics. And he was good with numbers. Keeping track of the weapons his boys used was no easy task. “Ah, but the arms are the things to rely on in a fight,” he replied, grinning as he towelled himself down, wiping the sweat from the weights.

Holt smiled genuinely. Ciro and he felt a sort of kinship, both Cadians at birth. Although having almost nothing else in common, the pair formed an instant bond over the jutting fortresses of the miserable world they both called ‘home’. “Captain’s got a job for you. Follow me.”

After Ciro had dressed, Holt led him down towards the flight decks. Neither man said a word on the long trip, both lost in their own private thoughts. Holt was preoccupied with how to acquire the lingerie the Munitorum rep had asked him for, promising him a night to remember. He smiled at the prospect, and wandered away into imaginings of his reward. Ciro was mentally ticking over; pondering what job the captain could have for him. 

They stepped out onto the gantry that overlooked the hangar. Holt was still awestruck by the scale of the place. The ceiling seemed to stretch for miles and miles, and the rows of bombers and assault boats were arrayed in a parade-like fashion on the steel deck plating. Ciro looked around, and saw the captain beckoning him over. Hawkes was a little further down the catwalk, looking out onto the rows of men stood loosely before him.

“Captain,” said Ciro, saluting, “You have a job for me?”

Hawkes returned the salute. “These boys have been brought over from the Demetrius, a cargo freighter carrying refugees. They decided it would be better to chance it in the Navy. I want you to train these boys into whatever you see fit. Make up some tests, find each one’s aptitudes and assign crew to train them in the area best suited.”

“Sir, with respect, I cannot possibly do this without causing substandard performance in the other areas of my role.”

“It’s taken care of, Ciro. One of your jarheads will take care of most of your other tasks. I just don’t want this lot to end up as scroungers and thieves on this ship. At least we can make use of them.”

Ciro studied the group of boys, talking and standing at ease in a rough rectangle. After some thought, he spoke. “Sir, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll require the use of one of the disused compartments to run the training, and to set up obstacle courses and the like.”

“You have it, Ciro. Now go and have a closer look.”

Ciro nodded and descended the steps to the deck. His boots clanged as he jumped the last step, striding over to the milling crowd. “Form up!” he roared and the boys jumped, panicking, trying to get into the formation they’d been in.

Ciro watched with distaste as the mob failed to make even a basic shape. He spat in disgust as one boy fell over. What had he accepted here? His hands fidgeted behind his back as he searched for the right words. He had to make a first impression as a stern taskmaster. And his damned hands would make him look like an alcoholic on stimulants.

“That,” he said, pausing until every juvenile eye was on him, “was the worst display of parade duty I’ve ever seen in my life. You all signed on to this ship? You are not fit to lick its floors! I will try and turn you into crewmen, each in an area suited to you. But you will all be thrown off this ship if even one of you fails to toe the line. I am Master at Arms Ciro, and you will address me as ‘sir’. It will be the first and last word out of your squeaky little mouths from now on! Some of you may even survive the training, but only if you are prepared.

“I am now personally responsible for you bunch of curs, and if there is a problem, I have to explain to the captain,” Ciro cast a glance to the figure on the gantry, noting all the eyes following his gaze, “exactly what you little freaks have done. Now I don’t ever want to have to do that. Discipline will be tight.”

Ciro paused, looking with fury at one of the boys at the back who was parodying Ciro’s speech with hand gestures and silly faces. He stiffly walked around and grabbed the unawares lad, dragging him by the scruff of his neck to the front of the group.

“Up!” he bellowed and the boy staggered to his feet, his prior confidence gone. “Name,” said Ciro, barely above a whisper, but every syllable bulged with rage. The boy began to stammer something unintelligible and Ciro flicked two fingers. Two of his marines came running over from the other side of the deck and took the boy in arm, supporting his jellied legs.

“What is so funny son?” Ciro punched him hard in the gut, winding him. He patiently waited for the boy to regain his breath before asking again. “Do you think this is a joke? Eh? I will show you how funny I find your joke.”

The mob hushed as their joker was pushed to the floor and quickly bound to some rings in the deck, used for mooring cargo.

“I was saying about discipline. You will all watch, and if anyone turns away or shuts their eyes, they will join this pathetic creature.”

Ciro pulled a whip from his belt and flicked it on the deck, satisfied with the looks of terror. Fear was his instructor’s tool.

Turning to the chained boy, he spoke loudly, “Mocking a superior officer. Fifteen lashes.”

Ciro brought up the whip, and the boy whimpered in fear and a sob escaped him.

“One.”

***

On the bridge of the Advantage, Hawkes was busy relaying co-ordinates to the ships in his care and trying to get them into a rough formation. Dealing with lackadaisical civilian captains was not one of Hawkes' skills, and he struggled to contain his anger as the civilians bickered and went daft. Trying to get them in a convoy form was difficult when they were stood still, but Hawkes had to make the fleet rendezvous or face the ire of Ravensburg himself. And that was not on Hawkes' list of things to do before he died.

"Helm, full stop. Let's try and get these stupid traders in some kind of order."

"Aye sir, full stop."

Hawkes left the bridge, getting his Navigation officer and helmsman to organise the fleet. He had logs to update and a nap to catch. There was so much on his mind he wondered how he could think straight. There was that Navigator to see, and the crew had petitioned for some pugilism on the decks as stress relief. Hawkes was leaning towards giving the go-ahead but he was worried it could get nasty if old scores wanted to be settled. He decided on officers and enlisted only, none of the press-ganged gun crews. That would turn into a riot and a mess. He slid into his chair and pulled out the logbooks. Settling on the dated page, he began to write up the last two day's events, emphasis on the Orion incident.

It was late into the night when he finished all the paperwork, settling into the bed and calling for something to ease his sleep. His chef personally brought out some milky drink and Hawkes gulped it down, grateful for the sleep. Sometimes the bureaucracy of a warship was staggering.

Ciro had finished the first day with the boys. Some he had marked out as intelligent, others as belligerent fools. The stupid would go to the guns. The rest, it was too early to tell. Sleeping on the deck of the flight bay would harden them, he thought. That was what he was trying to drill into them. Everything is earned.


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## mcflurry (Feb 4, 2009)

*6​*

“Sir, you’ll want to have a look at this.” 

The Sensors Officer looked worried, his eyes wide. Hawkes stood from his chair and wandered down from the dais towards the sensors pit. The officer gestured to a tiny dot on the auspex’s green display. The dot was well outside the furthest ring. 

“I think it could be a ship sir. I took the liberty of running a long-range sweep and we detected plasma wake. There’s no friendlies in the area, so it’s either a civilian ship or it’s the enemy.” 

Hawkes paused for a moment. “Set condition three. Keep me informed if it turns for us or detects the convoy."


“Aye sir.”

Hawkes was troubled by this. It could be the Styx from the shipyards, and it had just wandered onto their wake, or it could be something else. At condition three, the guns were ready to fire at a moment’s notice and the crew were on increased alert. Major bulkheads were sealed and doors locked in place behind the user. 

"Weapons, get some torpedoes loaded. I don't want to be caught with our arses in the wind."

A million kilometres behind, the ship banked towards the convoy.


***

“Come on! Hit the targets!” 

Ciro was having a hard time turning his greens into crew. None of them could hit the targets that popped up in the disused compartment. Rubber rounds had been issued to the new boys, and they had proved their worth, or lack thereof. One boy was already sporting a series of bruises where he’d been shot by his laughing friend. Stupid juveniles didn't understand what was at stake, choosing to act like toddlers and fire on each other. The lad who fired was now being hauled before the Commissar- if they were in a combat situation he'd be declared traitor and executed. Ciro watched with a professional eye as the boys shot. The targets popped up and stayed up for three seconds, which should have been ample time to shoot them. These lads were useless. Rubber rounds bounced off the walls and deck, even the ceiling. Everywhere except the targets.

“Keep up! Ichas! You missed one!” Ciro decided enough was enough. “Right, cease fire! Weapons to the marine on the door. Hold back and you’ll be shot! Here tomorrow at 0600!” 

Ciro itched his neck idly, rubbing at the rash he'd picked up from some greasy substance that had dripped on him from a pipe on C Deck. It seemed to be getting worse, and he decided a visit to the medicae would be in order. A lot of the crew said that Reiker was a butcher, but Ciro enjoyed a better relationship with the surgery-happy doctor, and often got prescriptions under the table for any ailments. 

The boys errantly filed out. In the few days he’d had them, Ciro had tried to bring up their basic fitness through making them run the length of the flight deck endlessly. He’d had them in the engines to get them to cope with adverse conditions, and shown them the gun bays to see the fate that awaited failures. They hadn’t liked that. 

“We’ve got a long way to go with them,” remarked Ciro to the guard, seeming less tense. He was already trying to think of his next move with the boys. Rating was a long way off. He would need a lot longer to finish training these boys. Tomorrow afternoon he might try some theory. Those with intelligence could be passed off to Navigation or Sensors. A chance at a commission would catalyse the idle fools.

“Aye sir. They’re useless. I think a stint in the gun bays would do them good.”

“Hmm. I think it just might."

***


Hawkes gazed proudly over his bridge. Some of the finest men and women he’d ever met. He glanced from Sensors to Weapons, Helm to Engines and finally Damage. His Navigation pit was quiet and subdued. Darl had been arrested and dragged off to the brig for his drinking and abandoning his post. He was flogged in front of the ship’s company as a warning, and demoted to Rating. He was now cleaning the decks and had the endlessly futile task of keeping the bilges clean. The job was impossible in its description- the bilges were never clean, the scrubbed parts reclaimed by the dirt. It was a lot like Prometheus, pushing the rock up the hill only to have it roll back down again.

"Helm, we have course deviation. Correct to starboard, 0.5 degrees."

"Aye sir." the change was barely noticeable, but with the distances the Advantage was covering, that half a degree could end them up years away from their intended destination.

“Sir, that ship’s back again. Its predicted course results in collision. Carom 0, bearing 181.4!”

Hawkes swore loudly. Much of the bridge looked worriedly at their captain. Hawkes rarely swore. “Condition one. Sensors, I want to know what that ship is. Helm! Stand ready for evasive manoeuvres! Ready the fleet, combat formation!”

***


Ciro was trying to catch some sleep when the alarms went. Blazing sirens and warning lights above each hatch lit up. He leapt with surprising speed from his cot and pulled on his combat jacket. He had a battalion to organise.

“Sir! Ship identified as the Murderous Hate!”

“What?” exclaimed Hawkes, “Check again! Weapons, I want firing resolutions now!"

“Confirmed sir, ship attempting to vox us.”

Hawkes sat for a moment. “Put them through. Just to me.” 

His Vox Officer complied and low rumbles filled Hawkes’ ear as he held the receiver. Eventually heavy breathing emerged from the speaker. 

“Captain Hawkes. You will pay for that incident with my engines in your own blood. I don't expect to be humbled by a b'stard cur like you.”

“Really?” replied Hawkes dismissively. He was busy wondering how the Hate escaped annihilation.

“Do not mock the gods! You insulted them and me too many times. Hawkes, I have you outclassed and outgunned. I think I will cripple you and then pillage your convoy before your helpless eyes.”

“Corrigus. You arrogant dreamer. I’ll mock you all I like, and this time I’ll finish the job properly. Bloated little traitors like you hardly deserve my broadsides, but I’m feeling generous. I remember what you did to the 501st.” 

Master of Pain Corrigus. The infamous slaughterer of the 501st battle group, Corrigus had turned his battleship on the cruisers he commanded and butchered them all. It took months for word to get out, by which time Corrigus had slipped away. 

What no-one knew was why he turned. He was a decorated captain, devout to the Emperor and zealous to boot. 

In actual fact, Corrigus had a son. A son who was fatally wounded on a frigate in action against the Tau on the Eastern Fringe. His child had been recovered and lain in a coma on Brimlock for years. Corrigus prayed to the Emperor, begging a slight reward for his years of service and adoration. He was not answered. Distraught at his only offspring's worsening grip on life, he turned to anyone that could help. And that was when the Chaos Gods appeared to him, who would save his son in return for fealty. Corrigus reluctantly accepted the bargain, and his soul fell to the Ruinous Powers. His son could never know or see his father. Corrigus had paid a horrible price. His son lived, but to Corrigus he was dead. 

Hawkes had fought him before at Tyro, and both ships had taken a beating. It would take a lot of skill to come away the victor. Hawkes could picture the fat figure plugged into his ship. He would feel every impact as if it was his own body being hit, and Hawkes smiled.

“You’re the dreamer, Hawkes, peddling the untruths of the False Emperor. You’re hiding behind your lies and bravado. I know you’re scared. And I will leave your wreck here.” Corrigus coughed, his surprisingly human voice breaking up on the vox. “Well Hawkes. I’ll nail your corpse to my prow. You’d make a lovely figurehead.”

“You wouldn’t. Your flab would keep blocking the torpedo tubes. But I think Ravensburg will appreciate your death. I might even get a promotion. You're going to die here.”

With the last word, Hawkes terminated the link. “Gentlemen! Our mutual friend wants a chase, and we’ll give him it! All ahead full!”


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