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Hi Dakka! More Vengeance Marine action for you. This is my longest piece, PLEASE comment!

Chapter History: http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/430479.page
Homeworld analysis: http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/430718.page


Prologue

I feel a certain weight upon me to pen something dramatic and inspired for my first line; a phrase to capture the pride and honour I feel at my acceptance into the ranks of the newest Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes... one statement that captures my life's progression to this point... that's not going to happen. I have my moments of introspection and reflection like everyone else, but mostly my talents lie elsewhere. Even the Emperor's finest need paperwork to keep things organized though, so I must maintain my literary skills as well as those more directly useful in combat. And so, I scratch at parchment like a scribe. A scribe with fingers made for a bolt pistol and not a quill, quite literally. While the wording may not be right for official documents, this will be a record of my deeds as Vengeance Marine. Today is as good a place to start as any; I made sub-sergeant.
I was given my new rank by Sergeant Strickland. He has been 'the Sarge' as long as I've known him, and that is no small span of time. He wears no service studs, but I know he has led Space Marines into battle for at least three centuries, and there is no man I would rather have beside me when doing the Emperor's work. His promotion speech is easy to remember, the words were few.
"Coorin." The Sergeant is always brief.
"Sergeant," I said, not turning from my inspection of the area.
"Combat squads. Take Secundus team. Bring 'em back an' you can keep 'em." Strickland's clipped speech is intentional: precise and efficient. Some new recruits mistake his poor grammar for low intelligence. Anyone who has seen him plan an ambush knows otherwise. The man is a small scale tactical genius. He can do more with one squad than most Guard generals could do with an army. If Sergeant Strickland chose to grant me my position, even in the midst of battle, I know I deserve it.
I had indeed brought them back. Four marines now look to me for direction. I have two senior marines with experience nearly equal to my own, and two fresh from assault squad training and still getting used to tactical deployment. I should probably try to remember their names...
My point man, Time (I don't even know his real name yet) lately of the Ultramarines. The man is nearly as silent as a tomb; his scouting reports are about all I've heard from him. I was there when the artificers painted his armour, but I don't know what thoughts went through his head as Ultramarine blue became sunburst yellow. I suppose the fact that he retained his original armour could mean that he, like me, left his Chapter on good terms, but that is only speculation. I do know that the artificers spent days repairing the armour before it could be painted. Not from battle damage, but from old battle honours that had been rudely removed with a las-cutter. He's certainly no rookie. To have earned that kind of decoration, in the Ultramarines, nonetheless... I can't help but wonder what made him join Vengeance, and without rank.
My other squad mates are less reserved, but every bit as ready for action. Lug: Space Wolf, huge even for an Astartes. I'm still not sure what to think of him. His martial prowess cannot be denied, but he may be... unstable. Set him to take an objective, but not to escort a captive. Guy makes me nervous, all truth out.
Then the twins... Bryllen and Fyster seem alright to me. Natural ability to work as a team, able to follow unconventional orders, and they don't seem to mind when I forget their names, or confuse one for the other. They're a decent couple of guys, for rookies.
So here I am, sub-Sarge again. It's been... well over a century at least. Let the scribes worry about dates. I left the Imperial Fists as a tactical squad Sergeant. Left the Fists... honorably, and with the blessings of my battle brothers, Captain, and Chapter Master even... but I still left. My armour was given to the artificers, and the raised fist emblem was cut from the shoulder guard, and my Company and squad markings were painted over on the other. My past honours were similarly removed, reverently, and kept for the Chapter's use. The damage was carefully repaired afterward, however, unlike Time's armour, and it took nearly a whole day. I hadn't doffed my power armour for more than a few hours, and that rare, since the thrice-cursed traitor scum Black Legion overwhelmed the Cadian guard in triple seven, and the Hammers of Dorn had to push them back into the Eye. Yeah, that was a good fight. Today wasn't bad either, mind you.
It was dark. It was dark because the nearest star was, well, rather far away. One of the interesting things about going on Crusade is seeing the spaces between worlds; those gaps in the Imperium, billions of parsecs of uninhabitable wilderness. A perfect place to hide that which shrinks from the light: the mutant, the heretic, and the alien. This time, it was the alien. Orks, to be exact. A lost tendril of Waaagh! Angrybritches, or some such. We didn't ask. First Squad was deployed immediately on the surveyors sighting a ship drifting under minimal power outside trade lanes (The gigantic, crudely executed Waaagh! banners and clan markings scrawled across the hull were a good hint as to its occupants). While we appeared to have the drop on them, it was decided to go for a lightning strike at the hulk's structural core to plant melta bomb charges. For maximum speed, a lone Thunderhawk would transport us, backed by Honored Brother Laudenus, Third Company's Dreadnought, in his own transport. It was little more than an airlock chamber with a propulsion unit at one end and breaching charges at the other, but a boarding torpedo is the fastest way to get inside another ship's hull. Provided the surveyor has read his auguries correctly...
As our Thunderhawk traversed the inky void, each marine checked his gear and weaponry, tested his auto-senses, and generally prepared to go to work. The quiet bothered me. Every sortie I have ever executed has begun with a hearty hymn of battle. I started to hum the opening bit of Fists of Dorn, and smiled as I saw the Sergeant's posture ease a fraction. No one else seemed to notice, continuing to check equipment, or simply waiting in grim silence. I realized the problem: we were all from different Chapters. I thought hard, then smiled again, and began to sing, strong and slow, the Astartes anthem. Heads snapped up all around the bay, and almost instantly, the thick hull of our transport reverberated with lusty voices. As usual the pertinent bits were shouted all the louder, reminding us that we, "Feel no pain!" and, "Know no fear!" The boost to morale was palpable. As we thundered out the final chorus, I was rewarded with a rare smile and nod from the Sergeant. If smiles could be gilded and fitted to power armour, it would be my proudest achievement.
So it was that First Tactical Squad burst through the docking umbilical with our blood and guns up and spirits high. The Sarge went first, as ever, and I was right behind him. The inside of the ship was unlit, probably conserving power for the most vital systems. My auto-senses easily penetrated the darkness, however, and showed me that the immediate area was clear. I looked to Strickland, but he silently blinked a rune negative red on my visor: he hadn't seen anything either. The other eight troopers poured into the space and as we set up a perimeter, I overwatched my squadmates' helmet mounted vid-casters, piecing together a picture of the ship's interior. It was massive in scale, fetid in appearance, and about the last place any servant of the Emperor would want to find themselves; unless they get their thrills killing threats to the Imperium. Luckily, that's just the name of our game.
Brother Agravaine took point and ducked low to cross through a hole that had been crudely hacked through a bulkhead. His rune changed to combat stance on my visor almost immediately, and I heard the loud bark of Orkish small arms fire. It sounded like a lot of guns, and so close it was amazing their owners hadn't been spotted by our thermal pickups. I saw the Sarge crouch to aim through the hole, but there was no telling how many Orks were on the other side, and Agravaine was alone. I charged and threw myself onto my stomach, murmuring an apology to my armour even as I slid on my breastplate. I didn't bother regaining my feet, just thumbed my bolter to full auto and sprayed at the mass of green legs I saw in front of me. Agravaine had begun shooting just as I entered the room, and together we slew what turned out to be a mere three Orks before they could close to assault us. We remained alert and covered the exits from the room while the rest of the squad negotiated the low entryway (none of them elected to try my method). Strickland said nothing either, but he gave me a brief look as he passed. I couldn't tell if it was a good look or not. He has that kind of face that says, "I'm going to kill the living bits out of you. Not kidding." all the time.
Brother Agravaine once again took up the lead, guiding us down dank hallways and past rusting, ruined technologies whose purpose I could not guess at. The depressing background and horrid Ork stench combined to make it a wholly unpleasant atmosphere. That's one thing Ultramar has going for it. You don't step in gunk every three paces. I looked forward to killing more Orks, and was pleased when Agravaine reported a larger group ahead, in a hub-like location that suggested a staging area for raids on the rest of the ship.
The first of the foe were so surprised they hardly seemed to know what to do. Eight boltguns opened up on them, spitting explosive ammunition at a fearsome rate. I felt a hand tap my shoulder guard and stepped aside to let Brother Pasir through. His flamer was already lit, and as soon as he was clear of his fellow Marines, a great cloud of super-heated promethium burst forth. Those Orks which had hidden among their shot up fellows howled and roared as they were roasted alive. No matter; we hadn't really been going for the element of surprise anyway, just speed.
Echoes of more on their way bounced off the rusty walls, fooling my auto-senses' attempts to determine their origin. That was our only warning before the next batch came hurtling through a nearby gap in the walls. Disciplined bolter fire sent up miniature explosions of blood throughout the Orkish ranks, but failed to halt their advance. I heard a mechanical roar, and knew that the Sergeant had activated his chainsword. The close confines of the ship's interior and the Orks' numbers were forcing us into assault range. I emptied my magazine into the oncoming green tide at head level, felling at best hope a handful, and then drew my combat knife.
The blade is mine, not the Chapter's. It was given me by my father the day I was chosen for the 'Fists. I was younger than most noviciates, and the words were spoken very long ago, but I still remember what my father said as he handed me the knife, the grip enormous even his roughened Guardsman's hands.
"This blade has been in our family longer than my father's father knew; he said it was given to our ancestor. He told me that a holy warrior from beyond the stars entrusted it to the Coorin line in gratitude for a deed we no longer recall. After honorable death or discharge, every Coorin wills this knife to his kin. It has seen a thousand years of war in the hands of dozens of servants of the Emperor. May it serve you even longer." He seemed almost reluctant, and hesitated as he placed the grip in my small hands.
I have had a long time to consider that hesitation, and I think I understand it now. The weapon had been ensured a future for a thousand years because it was always passed from father to son (and probably to nephew once in awhile). I am Adeptus Astartes, and my future is war. I sire no children, tend no hearth, till no field. The blade would never pass to another Coorin.
But he did give me the knife, and I understand the faith he placed in me to do so. I could carry it as long, or even longer than the rest of the family. Astartes can live very long lives, if the Emperor wills it. And we practice our knife work.
I held onto the stirring thought of my father's faith in me as I charged the foe, and the greenskins' strength, brutality, and numbers were no match for determination and discipline. I saw Sarge take both arms and the head off of an Ork wildly brandishing a club, the blood spraying vertically from the three stumps, and horizontally from Strickland's madly revving chainsword. Rather than fall back from such a grisly sight, the greens hooted and howled with barbaric laughter. The group was as savage and ferocious as they always are, but I'd fought them before and knew that these were only the rabble, the file troops.
First Squad felled a score or more without taking more than a bit of scratched paintwork, and quickly began setting up a perimeter, entirely by Vengeance Chapter battle sign and rune flashes. The Ignatius twins covered the large corridor that most of the Orks had come from, while Brother Agravaine ghosted down a side passage. The flamer-toting Pasir stayed near the sergeant. Obviously Strickland had plans for an individual action using Primus team. He turned to face me.
"Coorin." The sergeant is always brief.
"Sergeant," I said, not turning from my inspection of the area.
"Combat squads. Take Secundus team. Bring 'em back and you can keep 'em."
I saw a rune change from an arrow to a single inverted chevron on my helmet's display. It was my rune. I was sub-sergeant, just like that. I turned to my squadmates.
"Secundus team, fall out and sound off."
Four yellow and black shapes left their defensive positions and formed a line.
"Tir Icengrin," said the enormous Marine with the missile launcher.
"Fyster..."
"And Bryllen Deparde," said the pair of equal height and build. I simply nodded as if they had said Mikel and Jhon. The Price draws recruits from every planet our crusades touch, and their names were at least pronounceable.
"Time," was all my new pointman said, and that after a long pause. He was right, it was. I tapped my breastplate in a quick salute to the men... my men. I nodded to Time, and he moved forward, bolter at the ready. I glanced at the others, then followed. Tir fell into step beside me, keeping me out of his 'launcher's field of fire. The twins kept pace behind, guns up and senses on alert though we were still in sight of Primus team. I liked my new battle brothers immediately.
The Orks had not had much sense of design, although I suppose it's not fair to blame them specifically. Who knows how many ships had been scavenged and poorly welded together to sustain the hulk? And over how much time? Tight, twisting corridors opened without warning onto cavernous rooms ranging in size from closets to launch bays. Ork filth and crude graffiti covered the walls and floor, and the occasional snotty glob hung from the lower ceilings. Surprisingly enough, some of the graffiti was in standard Imperial gothic. "Waaagh!!!" seemed to be a popular one. Most were just curses or strings of insensible, vile ramblings. Nasty green bastards. I glanced with pride at the contrast between the ship and my brother Marines' bright yellow limbs and gleaming silver and gold breastplates. I may be a bit biased, but that sunburst yellow looks damned fine. Gold and silver 'plates and gauntlets might be a touch dressy, but we are Astartes, after all. Two hearts and two hands, pledged to serve His will.
"Half-dozen greens next left, tight grouping." Time's rune blinked from green to blue and back again as he voxed his brief report. I grinned within my helmet, and blinked my rune at Brother Icengrin. We were using a team vox channel, and I knew he had heard Time's message. As I moved into cover on the near side of the next dark opening, the missile-toting Marine stepped boldly into the center of the passage. My auto-hearing detected and isolated the sound of seven Orks oinking in surprise (and in unison, which was really the funny part), an instant before Tir's frag missile turned them and the surrounding area into gore and twisted metal. The back blast off of Tir's weapon threw my auto-senses off, and I canceled them instantly. Un-augmented, the view did not improve. It still looked like excrement.
We moved in, kicking aside Ork parts and shrapnel. Once, long ago, pieces of the room had been part of the communications deck on a trading vessel. Shoddy and apparently random patchwork welds, long years of decay, and the rough treatment of the Orks had all failed to cause nearly as much damage as my special weapons man. As it should be.
"Large force alerted. Returning to team." There was no hint of strain or nervousness in the tone.
"Covering positions! Brothers Fiesty and Breln, cover this passage." I said, pointing to one of three exits from the chamber; not the one we came from, nor the one I had overwatched Time scouting. "Brother Tir..." I stopped, as he didn't appear to be listening. He appeared to be pulling apart a section of the ship's flooring. With no sign of effort, the foreboding giant stripped up a long piece of sheet metal, pressed it in half, and wedged it across the doorway, the surprised twins leaping aside. It was done before I could have finished asking him what he was doing.
"Good enough. Time: E.T.A.?" I decided I had better start imitating Sergeant Strickland in a hurry.
Instead of an answer, I heard a short burst of bolter fire, followed by the sight of Time sprinting full tilt towards us. He was being chased by too many greenskins to count, all howling and firing their shoddy weaponry in his general direction.
I shouted an alert and opened fire. Brother Time was still on the other side of the doorway, so I concentrated on one side of the hall, giving him room to reach cover. Tir's shot was totally unexpected. He couldn't have been able to see the Orks yet from his position, he must have fired blind. The missile streaked past me, narrowly missing my point man, and exploded right in the faces of the oncoming mob. Those behind came on, trampling their wounded and ignoring the cries of pain and outrage. They were many.
A pair of runes blinked from green to yellow on my visor just as I heard the hard crack of boltgun fire from behind me. My pair of rearguards were doing their duty. A glance showed me that Tir's hasty barricade wouldn't hold long. Things were getting ugly and it was time for calm, rational thinking. I plucked a frag off my belt, simultaneously changing my runic icon to crossed red swords. Close assault.
"We're here to f**k s**t up!" I roared, lobbing the grenade and charging through the door towards Time. The solemn marine swung on his heel without pause and ran beside me, firing from the hip with steady aim. Flesh broke, bones shattered, and fungal organs exploded as our bolts struck home.
Time and I slung our bolters and drew combat blades as we closed with the greenskins. Even then, thoughts of power weapons danced in my head. As an officer, I would be issued more potent weaponry on our next expedition... Fancies fled as we crashed into the ready foe. Crude bludgeons and axes of all shapes and large sizes scraped and knocked against my armour. Flakes of yellow and black paint fell, but the techpriest-blessed ceramite held firm. I wasted no time admiring my inviolability, instead gripping and tearing with one hand while I hacked and stabbed with the other.
They fought as all Orks fight: with great strength and numbers, and low cunning. There was little space to dodge and maneuver in the narrow corridor, but that also kept the better part of the greenskins out of assaulting distance. Trying to press the advantage, Time and I tore into the front ranks but were pressed back by the green tide. The grotesquely muscled beasts clambered over the corpses of their fallen, bellowing unintelligible curses at us. I answered them with crushing ceramite, biting adamantium, and the Litany of Hatred for the Xenos at the top of my lungs. Time was silent as ever, but no less deadly.
The violence was total. I have fought xenos of more variety than I can remember, but none understand the joy of the fight better than the Orks. Oh, I hate the rotten green bastards as much as anyone else, don't get me wrong. But they really seem to relish the fight. I've seen an Ork literally ripped in half by gunfire and still crawl on its hands to gnash yellowed fangs at my boots. It just feels... right killing Orks. They have no concept of honor or valor or self-sacrifice or anything, but they seem to seek a worthy opponent above all else, and I can't pretend not to understand the sentiment. Whatever their philosophy on life, it wasn't saving them at the moment.
By the chronometer in my visor, the fight was shorter than our patrol thus far, but no less vicious than any Ork attack. Reeking blood splattered my arms to the shoulder. I was hip deep in the dead and possibly dying (Orks take some convincing).
"Brothers Fyster... and... Bryllen!" I voxed as I ran back to the com room, barely remembering the latter Marine's name.
"We stand... bolter fire and Orkish yammering overcame the voice from the background ...unwounded. Brother Tir is... howling Orks, and I'm pretty damn sure a howling Space Marine ...Brother Tir is f**king s**t up, sir."
"Secundus Team! Form up on Brother Tir's position, assaulting!" I voxed to the squad, and proceeded to do so. Time was like my shadow, right beside me and quiet as the Void. I sprinted ahead through the tight doorway, back into the unpleasant remains of the comm room. Brothers Fyster and Bryllen [need to get these guys nicknames] were on either side of the larger doorway that Tir had blocked with the flooring. The solid metal sheet was now shredded to netting by Ork ammunition. The rusty iron pellets are hurled with enormous force, but designed with more thought to visual appeal than armour penetration or accuracy. Little spikes and Orkish glyphs and such. Stupid greenskins. So, the barricade was ripped up good, but my rearguard didn't seem to be under heavy attack. I came fully into the room, looked through a suspiciously large hole in the barricade, and saw why.
Brother Tir was going to work. He hadn't bothered to sling or ditch his 'launcher before closing to assault range, instead using it to guard his right side while he slashed at all points with his sword-length combat blade. Then I saw him down an Ork with a cut to the leg tendons, and follow by crushing it's skull with the 'launcher's upended barrel. I hadn't seen that move before. The Orks seemed as impressed as I was, running to the fight with excited howling and gibbering, and completely ignoring the twins' sporadic fire from the doorway.
The Fenrisian warrior cut down three brutes wielding scrap metal weapons while I watched, clearing a space wide enough for the rest of the squad to open up on those behind. Sanctified bolter fire made short work of the unarmored foe, and no more seemed to be in the area. I voxed the Sergeant.
"Reporting: Encountered and defeated a score of greens, took no hits." I was still trying to learn his clipped way of speaking; so different from the formal, declarative speech of my more formal battle brothers from the Ultramarines and other venerable Chapters. Not that I had ever had many friends of the formal set.
"Surveyors' targeting was off. Laudenus' pod hit somewhere near your position. Seek out and escort the Honoured Brother to the ship's core, where you will aid in placing meltabomb charges." Just the kind of action to get a sub-Sergeant some respect.
"Orders received and understood," I voxed back, that smile creeping across my face again.
Well, we got around to setting the charges. But not before Secundus team proved its mettle. Every corner of the crazy, twisting hallways could hide another band of Orks, and most did. We killed our way along the corridors, kicking aside the bodies as we went. I knew that the Dreadnought would not wait for us before getting into the fight, and listened for sounds of distant combat.
It was Tir who found him. He claimed that he could smell a Dreadnought, and when asked, explained that it was a unique combination of exhaust fumes, oil, grease, and incense. I could only smell ork filth and my own sweat, and my auto-senses weren't doing much better.
"If you can smell him, I guess that puts you on point, Brother," I told him.
"They'll never see me coming," he joked, hefting his 'launcher and brushing a bright yellow-armoured hand down the front of his brilliant gold and silver breastplate.
"Just do your job," I replied in my best Sergeant Strickland impression. I waited for an angry response to such a terse command, but the Fenrisian just nodded as if I had made a polite request, and moved forward. Damned crazy Space Wolves.
As I suspected, Tir is a mediocre pointman at best. Too brash, with no thought to tactics; the guy is a walking Space Wolf stereotype; it's a little sad. But his sense of smell is apparently as good as he said. Tir led us straight to the missing Dreadnought, and could occasionally hear or smell Ork bands before they were right on top of us, though he said that the whole place stank so much of Ork that it was difficult to pick it out.
Honoured Brother Laudenus was putting the finishing touches on about twice as many Orks as we had seen so far. He didn't even bother to engage his storm bolter, let alone the multi-melta that serves as his right arm, just tearing into the greens with fist and feet. The feet are size one meter square, however, and the fist could breach starship hulls with its grip. They didn't last long, but it was fun to watch. When the work was done, Laudenus swept aside a pile of corpses to clear a path and greet us.
"Hail, Brother," Laudenus said, his voice distorted by the the brass vox-hailers mounted on his foreplating.
"Hail, Honoured Brother Laudenus. I am sub-Sergeant Alrik Coorin, under instructions from Sergeant Strickland to aid you in placing charges," I stopped, unsure how even five Astartes could hope to be of much help to the mighty man-machine.
"I have heard of you. Scout ahead and find a path to the core large enough to allow my passage." he said. I have no idea if he heard good or ill of me; I have no shame in my service record, but some find me... cantankerous? I have overheard the younger marines mocking my idolization of the Sarge, and I know my sarcastic manner grates on the Chaplains' nerves as well. I tried not to think about it while I voxed Strickland.
"Reporting: Dreadnought located, escorting to core." There was no response. It was possible that there was local interference from the Warp core, but unlikely, given our distance. I knew the Sarge would not break communications even during battle - chainswords tend to drown out nearby voices, but that doesn't stop the Sarge - and so I planned for the worst. We would set the charges and then do a sweep of Primus team's patrol route. The mission objective took precedence over the fate of my battle brothers, and I was forced to assume I was the ranking officer at the time. The burden of command, they call it. Almost enough to make me miss Scout training, where I could only get myself killed if I made a mistake.
Laudenus could not fit through the tighter passages, and we were forced to crisscross the ship, seeking the widest path. Having found the Dreadnought, Time took point position again. Bestial howls would have been our only warning of attack, had it not been for his watchful presence. Quick, often monosyllabic voxes with direction and numbers allowed me to set up effective counter-offensives and ambushes; all damn near Codex-perfect. The path to the core would be easy to retrace: we had left a trail of mangled corpses to lead us back.
"Core located." Time's vox was crackling with static, and it was difficult to make out even that simple message. I blinked a response on my visor rune and made haste.
I am no techmarine, but I know this much: the warp core of that ship was a piece of junk. Instead of a steady humming vibration, the surrounding area reverberated with metallic clangs and squeals. A strong scent of ozone hung in the air, overpowering even the ever present Ork stench. Time stood waiting beside an iron stanchion that looked ready to buckle. He showed no concern at the surroundings, and again I wondered what sort of experience he might hold. A veteran, certainly; perhaps even a Sternguard?
"No Orks here. They fear this place," he said.
"Good: we will set the charges without being bothered," I replied.
"Hardly," he said, pointing over our heads.
A network of conduits and wires, and transparent tubes filled with ancient, clotted plasma snaked across the ceiling to connect with the massive tower of the core in the center of the room. Many were damaged or outright broken, wires sparking and tubes dripping toxic glop. Even as I watched, a spark hit a globule of plasma, which exploded and caused still more destruction to the area. We needed to work quickly; it was amazing the thing hadn't gone critical already.
"Reporting: planting charges. Core is highly unstable." I got no response again, and hoped again that it was just a problem with the vox link.
Honoured Brother Laudenus was carrying the charges in a satchel slung from one of his exhaust stacks. I paused before retrieving them, awed by the marine who had been considered too valuable for death. He must have sensed my reluctance to actually touch his hallowed metal shell.
"Do not fear me, warrior of Terra. We are brothers in battle, and we serve the same Master," he said, his pict-recorders whirring as they moved to watch me.
"Forgive me, Honoured Brother, but my hesitation is only reverence," I said as I flipped the satchel's strap off of his back and shouldered it. Laudenus had carried its weight without effort, but steam vented from my power armour and I had to shift my footing as I took it. A dozen fat canisters were nestled carefully inside. With the state the core was in, they would be more than enough. I placed and armed the charges around the central tower, ensuring that priming pins were pulled and confirmation rituals were completed. The process was interrupted occasionally by electro-plasmatic blasts which did my armour little harm, but unnerved me to no end while I was handling the explosives. Do I wonder if things would have gone differently if we had brought a techmarine along? No, not really. The objective was completed, that's what matters. As the Emperor wills.
Once the charges were set, we raced back along the trail of dead, hurdling or kicking aside the mounded corpses. As we neared the communication room again, I finally received a vox from the Sergeant.
"Situation's changed. Find or create a hull breach and exit the ship now. Thunderhawk will evac topside." The Sergeant's voice was tense and angry, and I could hear bolter and dakka fire in the background.
"Understood. Complying," I voxed back, barely containing myself from blurting out how glad I was to hear his voice, or something equally ridiculous.
I reviewed my helm visor's auto-map, and chose a course. Ignoring stealth in favor of speed, I chose an unconventional escape route.
"Honoured Brother, will you clear a path for us?" I asked Laudenus, at the same time connecting a plug from my armour to his cogitator unit.
"Of course. A straighter path out than in, I take it?" he responded after a a brief pause to review my suggested waypoints.
"You should have been a Librarian," I said, tapping the map unit on the side of my helmet, "You've just read my mind." It was a poor pun, and I regretted the over-familiarity as soon as I spoke. Making a fool of oneself in front of a Dreadnought means taking grief for a very long time. Fortunately, he thought it was funny.
Laudenus' laughter was as distorted as his speech, but the emotion carried through, and was infectious. First brothers Fyster and Bryllen [what kind of parents name a child... never mind] began to chuckle, then Tir actually took off his helmet for a moment to wipe his eyes, and I saw that his surname, Icengrin, was well deserved; long fangs hung like icicles from his upper palate. Only Brother Time refrained. I allowed my men to enjoy the moment, and then nodded to a still chuckling Laudenus.
"Let us leave this place, and make merry elsewhere Brothers," I said.
"Follow at a distance, lest the rubble crush you," said Laudenus, striding toward a solid wall.
"What rubbl..." began Tir, just as the dreadnought tore down half the wall with a swipe of his arm. "Bones of... straight out you said and straight out you meant!" Tir exclaimed.
A Dreadnought in combat is a wonder to behold, but a Dreadnought doing pretty much anything is fairly entertaining to watch, at the least. Laudenus tore through walls, bulkheads, girders, whatever crossed his path. He stepped left or right every so often to keep from leaving line of sight for any Orks that might be stupid enough to be following us, but we were cutting a very straight track otherwise.
"Why haven't you called for evac yet, Coorin?" The Sarge still sounded angry, this time with me for sure.
"Estimate two minutes to hull, Sergeant. Requesting permission to attempt Holmquist decompression maneuver," I voxed back. Col. Stavian J. Holmquist of the Imperial Navy had developed a new technique while fighting Orks in the war for Armageddon which involves intentionally breaching hull integrity at precise distances from a compromised section, to lessen the effects of explosive decompression. The maneuver had been successfully used in Naval engagements in response to torpedo attacks. Trying it from the inside would be incredibly risky but quicker than looking for an airlock, and it sounded like speed was what mattered.
"Granted; do it fast," came Strickland's reply. A slow smile grew beneath my helm. He knew I was attempting a complex procedure which required precise placement and timing, and he told me 'do it fast'. Maybe Strickland has some confidence in me after all.
The last few obstructions fared no better than the previous ones had against Laudenus' might, and we reached the hull in just under my estimate. I wasted no time, flipping explosives and detonators out of my belt dispenser and placing them in adjoining rooms, verifying the distances with my helmet's auto-map and targeting systems.
"Check seals, decompression in ten seconds!" I yelled to my team, securing my weapon, checking my gorget seal, and wrapping a leg and an arm around the nearest girder. The rest of Secundus team did likewise, and Laudenus simply moved away from the hull wall and lowered his mass as close to the floor as he could.
A vibration ran through the ship, but the melta bombs would have made a more noticeable effect. A chill ran down my spine as I realized that the core was finally going.
We know no fear, but even Space Marines have nightmares. I can think of no worse fate than to be trapped in warpspace aboard a ship with no void shields. I cannot imagine the strength of will within my Patriarch, to survive such an ordeal for near a thousand years with his mind intact. Having no wish to try it for myself, I was glad when my small charges blew in sequence; the central room, then the adjoining two, so that the secondary breaches stabilized the decompression of the first. It had actually worked, and here I only knew of the Holmquist maneuver in theory.
"Hull breached, Secundus and Dreadnought going topside," I voxed the Sergeant, activating the magnetic plates built into my boot soles, and powering up my pack's limited propulsion systems. I looked around, and was happy to see the rest of the team doing the same.
"About damned time. Thunderhawks inbound on your position," he replied. And here I had thought I earned a little respect. No such luck.
The ship quavered and writhed as the warp drive collapsed on itself. Whole sections buckled under the stress, and the outer hull shivered and blistered as weird energies were released from the core. There was no noise, of course; the void carries no sound. All the same, I could swear I heard something... Like cross chatter on a weak vox signal, it was unintelligible, but only just. Dark mutterings, mad ravings and primal screams washed over me, just outside the audible range, but perceptible in their vileness. We were too late; the ship was on the verge of Warpspace. Without a functional Geller field, we would be exposed to the lunatic denizens of that evil plane, defenseless. Daemons are not the only thing to fear, there. Warp-spawned creatures beyond description seek out the sparks of men's minds, to extinguish them, or worse.
"She's breaking up! Get the hell outta there, Coorin! One of the 'Hawks already had to disengage!" the Sarge's normal icy calm was breaking up.
"You heard the man," I voxed to my team. "Forget the magnets, just get clear of this thing, NOW!" I added, and showed them what I meant by sprinting toward the hole I had blown, and deactivating my boots at the last second. The momentum of my charge carried me clear of the ship, and I spun around to watch my squadmates emerge using my pack's attitude adjustment jets. None of them had any difficulty duplicating my escape, and they maneuvered away from the breaches without needing instruction. Good men. Now what to do about the Dreadnought when no transport was coming for him...
"Laudenus!" I yelled into my vox-bead, haste making me forget my trepidation, "No time to wait, get off that ship!" I knew the Dreadnought was not designed for zero gravity, but figured it was better to be lost in Imperial space than the Warp.
The outward-blown hole that Secundus team had escaped from widened like a mouth gasping its last as the brilliant yellow form of Brother Laudenus burst into the Void. Most of his inertia robbed by having to force his way out, the Dreadnought moved powerful limbs helplessly as he spun in space.
"Do not panic, Laudenus! Remain still and we will assist you," I told him. "Team Secundus, assist the Honoured Brother, and prepare for pick up," I ordered my men, and then moved in to help as well. Everyone gently gripped the edge of an armour plate, and used synchronized bursts of our attitude jets to maneuver him into position for the finally arriving Thunderhawk.
"Sub-Sergeant Alrik Coorin to Thunderhawk pilot: respond," I sent, desperately cobbling a plan to get us all clear of the ship before it dragged us into Warpspace with it.
"Pilot here, your team or the Dreadnought, Sub; you're going to have to pick one, and fast," came the reply, too rushed for courtesy.
"No! You're taking us all! I will signal once Secundus team is secured, and you will depart under limited thrust without closing the bay, Dreadnought in tow." I knew even then that I was in for a serious ration of grief for such a monstrous break with Codex stipulations.
"...nother crazy damned Space Wolf, I'll bet, but we can't just leave them. Pilot to Sub-Sarge: whatever you're doing, get it done! If that bastard transitions, we'll be sucked in with it!" That was the comment that sparked this whole journal idea: I wanted to remember to tell Tir about the Space Wolf crack, and then I just wanted to remember everything. Remember and learn from the experiences.
The ship neared and I thanked the Emperor and the pilot in near equal measures. Secundus team was inside before the bay door finished opening, and strapped in seconds later. I boosted Laudenus close enough for him to grip one of the hydraulic arms that moved the thickly armored ramp, then squeezed around him and back inside. I strapped myself in tightly, and nodded to Laudenus. He shifted his position as best he could, pinning the multi-melta that serves as his right arm against the ramp's other hydraulic, so that he filled the entire doorway, the view slit in his foreplating close enough for me to peer into it, if I had dared [respect and fear are not the same thing!].
"We're in, punch it!" I shouted to the pilot, by this time foregoing all semblances of politeness. The pilot had more to worry about than responding. I was thrown around in my harness as the craft surged away from the hulk just as a corona of purple light began to shine around the Dreadnought, emanating from the doomed craft behind him.
Again I felt rather than heard that terrible babbling. Crazed thoughts popped up in my head when I tried to make sense of the torrent. I groped about in my memory and latched onto anchors against the flow of insanity. The Liturgies of Hatred. For the Warp and all that spawns from it. For the xenos and the harm they bring to Man. For all those things that try to bring down the Emperor's great dream; the mutant, the alien, and the heretic. Righteous wrath filled me, and burned impure thoughts from my mind. I saw Tir shake his head as if to clear his vision, and flex his hands repeatedly. I realized I wasn't the only one suffering the effects of the Warp-rift.
"Space Marines! Faith is our only shield against the madness of the Warp! Remember the words of your Chaplains! Close your mind. Do not allow yourselves to be overcome by these base thoughts. We are Adeptus Astartes,, and we do not bend the knee to man or god! We are the sons of the master of mankind, and our will is strong!" I was roaring pretty good by the time I was through, but it had the right effect. Tir appeared to calm himself, and no one else showed warning signs.
A Thunderhawk full of silent warriors watched the purple glow of the doomed ship build behind the Dreadnought. The light grew in intensity, not brighter, but darker as the death of the warp drive began to split reality one last time. I grinned and thumbed a rune on my belt panel. The purple glow lightened and turned to orange as melta bombs detonated and almost instantaneously set off secondary explosions in the oxygen and fuel systems of how ever many ships had been patched together to keep the hulk limping along. No sailing the Warp as a ghost ship for that one, maybe to come back and bite us again in a millennium or two.
Shockwaves buffeted the Thunderhawk, and I worried for Laudenus' precarious position. His great fist never slipped, and though they were not designed for such use, the supports were made to handle the weight of hundreds of tons, and they held fast. Cheers went up from the rest of the men when it became apparent that we had made it outside the blast radius, and the other Thunderhawk came about to pick up Laudenus from his perch. After a quick but tense exchange with the other pilot, ours sent me one last vox.
"Wish it hadn't been my bird you tried it out on, but nice work marine. Let's get your crazy ass home." There was a pause. " I'll raise a glass with you."
I blinked an affirmative and finally allowed myself to relax a measure. First command: successful, if unorthodox. The overloaded Thunderhawk would get me a penance, at the least, but accomplishing all objectives without losses would grant me a bit of slack. I hoped.
* * *

Was kinda hoping for some comments on this. Please feel free to leave constructive criticism!

Just a couple of things, I found this fairly hard to read all of the way through because of the spacing. I would suggest double spacing
Also, it is very rare for a space marine to transfer chapter, yet alone permanently.
This story was an interesting change from normal 40k fiction. Keep up the good work.

Thank you for the comment. This was the product of some early ideas that have since been rethought, with the gracious aid of dakkanauts such as yourself. The only Chapter jumping that now occurs in Vengeance *Crusade* is that we accept renegades/dropouts.