Chapter Nine

Outer Reaches
Diadem
Unassigned Space

Master Arshavin laughed coldly as he watched the fleet of ships scurry to face his creations. Millennia had passed since he had last crossed swords with the Church; he had hidden himself away, developing his children to ever new and exigent levels.

His allegiance to the Tauran High Command had been swept away long ago, when he had followed the new Warmaster, ignoring the call of his brothers that he left behind. The time spent on the path of war had been helpful, but his arrogance knew no bounds and once again he had chosen solitude over the pitiful whining of his peers and subordinates. That had been a long time ago.

Combining the height of Church Technology, with demon possession had worked for a while, but he had soon decided that what he needed was something different. His spawn needed to obey him totally, and for that he had developed something new.

No doubt, both his Tauran brothers and the Church forces would declare him a heretic, but finally he had made his breakthrough. Those robots he had created, were self-thinking entities, to a point. Unswervingly loyal to Arshavin’s design, they had rudimentary brains, whose synapses were linked to his own central command. On the battlefield they could innovate, within the limit of their programmed capacity, although he still maintained the self-destruct option, if they ever advanced too far.

No-one had ever faced their like and survived and the prize waiting below, would add to their abilities. Carefully watching his screens, he saw the moment when they deployed their tactical weapons and grinned savagely. This was going to be entertaining.

*

Viker finished tightening the straps on his uniform, his gaze flicking across to Leftenant Krantu, who even now was receiving some last minute instructions from the Colonel.

He saw Corporal Johns and his old squad arrive and nodded to them with easy familiarity. It would be good to have them by his side once more, his amalgamation into Krantu’s squad was a little more difficult than he had first expected.

The call came and they formed up, ready to march onto the waiting pinnace. This was to be a quick and decisive strike, their target already defined by the Colonel. They would be dropping with some of the Eyatolians into what was expected to be a hot zone. The main body was to be held in reserve right now, the Colonel apparently ready to wait and see how the battle developed.

*

Marius fired his autocannons, the metal slugs tearing through space and impacting on the incoming objects. An ovoid of light flicked into existence and his rounds ricocheted harmlessly away.

“Careful boys,” he transmitted, “they’re shielded!”

His targeting reticule locked onto the next in line and he fired his plasma cannons. There was a brief resistance and then an incandescent explosion, as the creature disappeared.

“Captain!” screamed a voice, “Our laser cannons have absolutely no effect, we…..”

Looking at his tactical display, Marius saw the tags identifying his fighters begin to wink out and swore. With a snarl of rage, he slammed on the power and hoped he would get there in time.

*

The quill-like protrusions arched forwards, bending almost double and now facing towards the incoming fighters. Their shapes became fainter as the spines turned fluid and were flung forward, squirming towards the oncoming craft. Their serpentine motion made them hard to track and impossible to predict, yet not many pilots were overly worried, then the first of them struck.

It lashed around one of the fighter’s wings, shearing through the resistant metal as though it had never existed and continued on its way. The pilot instantly lost control of his craft, the fighter starting to spin and tumble, flying straight into more of the snake-like strings of energy. It was neatly sliced into pieces, with seemingly little sign of any diminution of the weapon’s strength.

Laser cannons fired, their beams ineffectual as they only scored the robot’s shields, with little or no penetration. Pilots were dying and there appeared to be nothing that they could do about it.

*

Arshavin crowed with delight as his robots’ weapons deployed, he was sublimely confident that the Churchmen had never faced anything like it and that nothing would be able to resist his latest inventions. He unknowingly had made a couple of mistakes; his opponents weren’t strictly speaking Churchmen and their technology was significantly higher than anything he had faced before.

*

“Fighters fall back, I repeat, fighters fall back!” ordered Marius as he and his Wing roared into battle. “We’ll soften them up for you and then you can finish them off, out!”

The delta wings flew in a linear formation, their plasma weapons blazing, the robots shields flaring and dying. Still Marius did not relent, utilising his vastly superior speed to turn and rake the robots again.

“Okay boys,” he transmitted, “they’re all yours! We’ve got bigger fish to fry!”

Once more the delta wings formed up on his lead and this time they powered on towards the waiting mother ship.

*

Arshavin had been surprised by the firepower exhibited by his enemies, but not overawed. It was time to put an end to this. He sent out a short mental command and drop pods began to deploy, augmenting his forces on the planet’s surface.

Another command, sent a beacon spinning outwards from his main ship, its pulsed signal designed not to control his current forces, but to call for reinforcements. He knew that his earlier preparations would now bear fruit. The two drone ships he had brought with him would arrive shortly and this battle would reach another level.

*

“Marius…” came the soft voice, reverberating inside the Captain’s head, a quick glance showing no radio activity.

“Yes, my Lord,” responded the Captain, his senses still focused on the burgeoning attack run on the robot’s mother ship.

“Abort your attack on the ship, I will take care of it,.” Marius began to protest, but he was quickly cut off, “No arguments. The protection of our landing force is of paramount importance. Take your Wing and give covering fire. We cannot allow these robots access to the treasure hidden below. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, my Lord,” replied the Captain, already beginning to transmit new co-ordinates to his Wing, “We won’t let you down!”

“I never doubted that for one moment, Captain. Now …” the voice trailed off, and Marius saw the new ships dropping out from the warp.

“My Lord!” he exclaimed.

“You have yours orders, Captain!” snapped Walters, abruptly cutting off communication.

*

Shan had followed his instructions to the letter, his flagship, the Spiteful Dawn, led a fleet of plague infested vessels on the trail of Walters and his men. The beacon drawing on Walters, had also guided the Tauran Adept. Its pure light and chorus of song had inflicted some pain on Shan’s corrupted ears, but pain was something he revelled in.

They had quickly decimated the Church fleet, their unexpected attack had converted many before any resistance could be mounted. His new brothers had gleefully joined in the destruction of the few die-hard Immortals, and his now putrescent ships followed their new God faithfully.

Surprise he thought would be on their side, the Churchmen would not be prepared for the overwhelming Tauran attack. His new connection with his God gave him many things, but unfortunately for him, prescience was not one of them.

The jump directly into an ongoing space battle would not have been his most fervent wish, but he quickly adapted, ordering rapid deployment of his new ground forces and driving the Spiteful Dawn and her sisterships straight at the heart of the engagement.

*

Walters snarled as he recognised the abhorrent taste of Shan’s followers, corrupting the ether. His eyes flashed as he turned to face Berbatov.

“We seem to be outnumbered, Sargeant!” he said curtly.

Berbatov only grinned and gripped the staff of his halberd more tightly, “Which one’s mine?” he growled, unconcernedly.

“The Taurans,” responded Walters, smiling at his ever ready Sargeant, “take Uther and the rest of his men with you. I will personally get you to their flagship; the rest is up to you.”

“Just how I like it!” replied Berbatov, before turning and barking orders to his men.



Lower Atmosphere
Diadem
Unassigned Space

Viker grunted as the pinnace shuddered under fire, it seemed that their enemies were already aware that they were coming. Jones, as did the other non-commissioned officers, shouted at their men, forming them up and making sure that their motivation was at its highest possible.

The pinnace landed, its door slamming open and with a roar the infantry charged outwards. From the rear of the craft, a ramp slapped to earth and the Eyotalian’s armour poured forth, their battle cannons speaking almost as soon as they touched the dirt.

Making as if to follow Leftenant Krantu, Viker felt a touch on his shoulder; it was Johns.

“You’re with us, son,” shouted the Corporal, above the intense noise of laser and cannon fire.

Looking up, he saw the Leftenant nod, and Viker raced to join his old squad, who waited expectantly.


Outer Reaches
Diadem
Unassigned Space

Walters stood beside Berbatov and looked over the waiting men and Immortals. They had not questioned how he was going to get them on board the enemy’s vessel nor the force they would face once they got there.

“Call me, if you need me,” he muttered to Berbatov, and then began, drawing in the energy from his surroundings. A green pin-point of light formed, rapidly expanding as he opened the portal. Not waiting for its full formation, Berbatov leapt through, howling his battle cry, which turned into a full-throated roar as his men followed.

*

Things were going to plan, was the smug thought flitting through the Shan’s mind, as he saw how heavily he outnumbered the others’ forces. His men had already started their descent to the planet below and now it was his turn to deal out pain and suffering. He smiled and moved to issue his attack orders when all hell broke loose. The ship itself seemed to scream in pain, as though it had been dealt a mortal blow, its alarms sounding more like cries than warnings.

Not being sure of what was happening, Shan called for answers, even as the first of his men began to die.

Chapter Eight

The Tower
Diadem
Unassigned Space

The creature slept. It was old, so old that it had even forgotten its own name, but not its purpose. Here in the almost perpetual night of the city, it waited; its task to defend home and treasure. Any and all who had once lived here had been the food which kept it alive, but they were long gone now and all that remained for sustenance were its own offspring.

It lived in a perpetual downward metabolic cycle; birth drawing hard on its remaining reserves, which then in its consumption became death. A clawed hand flashed outwards, catching the thing which slinked out of the dark. They never learned, their racial drive for domination was written deep within their genetic code. With the minimum expense of energy, it bit off the thing’s head, chewed once and swallowed.

One enormous lazy eye looked upwards, the spinning shapes hung in low orbit, their rapid pulsations making them blink in the night sky. At its most rudimentary level the creature welcomed their activity; soon sustenance would be here.

*

A small ship dropped out of fold space; its on-board instruments questing and finally locking on the now powerful signal. Carefully it advanced forward, like a beast sniffing for danger; cautious, its savagery held in check until it was needed.

Then, a small spheroid split from the main ship, its speed incredible as it shot past the revolving objects and crashed through the planet’s outer atmosphere, where it began to glow, the still tenuous air protesting at its passage.

Once through, there was a low explosion and it spilt into numerous separate parts which sprayed out fan-like, across the sky.

*

Below, the creature watched languorously, as the spectacle unfolded. Strange feelings surged upwards, emotions long forgotten; anticipation, anger and ultimately hunger.

*

Sleek cylindrical shapes surged downwards, quickly reaching terminal velocity, their fluted sides whistling as their self-generated wind roared past. Their tops were broad, thinning to a sharp point at their furthest extremity, which made them appear like inverted cones. Each of them slammed into the earth, clawing their way downwards into the protesting dirt and rock, until finally they came to rest. Steam rose from the holes they carved as their outer skins cooled rapidly, throwing off the memories of their violent passage through the air.

Whirring quietly a circle of metal began to rise from the head of each construction, finally blowing free with an explosive snap. Segmented limbs unfolded, tentatively probing, before gripping fiercely and pulling the concealed contents of the drop pod free. One by one, accompanied by a fierce clicking they rose from their self imposed prison, righting themselves on four spindly legs.

Spider-like, a spherical metallic body hung suspended from the limbs, swaying slightly. Two bright red lights blinked, before burning in a steady glow. Moving jerkily on knife life feet, they joined together and as one pack advanced on the silent city.

*

The creature knew they were there, and it unfurled its great leathern wings, holding them outstretched and motionless for a heartbeat. With a great leap and a massive down stroke it rose into the air, its muscles complaining at the unexpected demand. Then with ponderous beats it moved to meet the oncoming threat.

Behind it, there rose from various buildings a cloud of small flying creatures, their hunger overcoming the fear of their parent. Together they sped towards the advancing constructs, avarice gleaming in their eyes.


The Galleon
Unknown Location
Fold Space

“How long?” asked Arn, as the Galleon continued its seemingly endless journey through the warp.

“Not much longer,” replied Walters turning to face him, “the signal becomes stronger.”

Then Walters face twisted in anger, his eyes flashing, and a low growl began deep in his throat.

“My Lord, what is it?” questioned Arn, worried at the change in Walters.

“Others have found it!” he snarled, whirling to stare out of the view screen, but there was nothing to see, “Prepare the men,” he said more calmly now, “this is not going to be as easy as I thought!”



The Tower
Diadem
Unassigned Space

A scream of rage echoed through the sky, as the creature realised that there was no food here, the metallic nature of its enemies would give no sustenance. With an inclination of its great wings, it banked and turned, its great maw opening. Its mistake meant that it would have to expend much of its depleted resources now in the destruction of its unknown foes. Its jaws opening and closing it began its harvest, its offspring would provide.

*

As one, numerous pairs of red eyes focussed on the beast, commands were passed and metallic carapaces split. Slender rods extended out from the constructs’ shells, locking into place and then following the creature’s flight. Bright pin points of energy coalesced at their tips and then with a shuddering roar, plasma fire surged upwards.



Outer Reaches
Diadem
Unassigned Space

“Contact! We have an unknown contact sat close to the planet’s atmosphere, my Lord,” said Arn, as he studied the read outs.

“Only one?” mused Berbatov, “Well that shouldn’t give us too much of a problem!”

“Strike that!” shouted Arn, spinning to face Walters, “We have multiple contacts, missiles I expect, and they’re headed straight for us!”

*

Walters and his party’s arrival had not gone unnoticed, as ships dropped into real space, slowing and reorienting themselves, a beam scanned and rapidly analysed them. The correct response was calculated and the once crescent shaped ship remoulded itself. Its wings extended, exposing a central cylinder and small, bulbous pods dropped down to hang heavily underneath like some kind of over ripe fruit.

Then they split apart, birthing numerous spheres whose propulsion units quickly kicked into life and hurled them towards the Galleon and its sister ships. About half way to their targets, long thin appendages flowed from their rear, solidifying in the frightful cold of space, and sticking out rigidly,quill-like, behind the now rapidly moving objects. Two red lights flicked on at the front of each of the spheres and began to blink, faster and faster the closer they got to Walters’ fleet.

*

Marius was taking a well-earned rest, chatting with some of his men about the modifications which had been made to their fighters and the advanced technology of the Delta-winged craft they had found here in the Galleon. He had just raised a glass to his lips, ready to take his first sip, when the attack alarms shrilled.

“Scramble! Scramble! We have incoming!” boomed the announcement and he raced towards his fighter, his forgotten glass bouncing once before shattering into tiny pieces on the hard decking.

“What do we have?” he demanded on the control circuit and was surprised to hear Walters’ reply.

“Captain, we’re not sure. We have multiple signals and whatever they are, they certainly aren’t friendly. They didn’t wait to get to know us, they launched immediately on our arrival in the system. You and your men are going to be vital, either as our eyes or as a means to destroy them.”

“Yes, my Lord,” responded Marius, as he approached his craft, only to be waved away by one of the ground crew.

“Oh and Captain?”, said Walters, laughter in his voice, “I hope you like your new ride.”

*

Engines roared, the signal was given and the Galleon’s new Eyotalian Fighter Wing screamed out into space. The truth was that they were not all Eyotalians, some of the original pilots from the Galleon had been placed under Marius’ command and even now it was hard to accept them. When they had removed their armoured helmets, Marius had needed all of his control not to shoot them there and then.

Well, thought Marius, at last they would see how well the unit could mesh together, no more discussions on teamwork, this was live combat.

His biggest surprise had been the delta wing waiting for him, the paint still fresh on its newly added decals; the snarling K’ran’s head and the Eyotalian Eagle. It was technologically far beyond anything he had flown before; fast, powerful and so very responsive.

Calls came in from his wingmen, verifying their status and position and in one tight formation they surged towards their unknown enemy.



The Tower
Diadem
Unassigned Space

Plasma shot skywards, yet no hit was scored; the beast’s size belied its agility. It had fed now, the gamble to consume its only known food source taken, and it was angry, so very angry.

It had taken time to beat its way upwards, to gain the height it needed to increase its maneuverability, but now it was here. Folding its wings against its body it plummeted down, its speed increasing rapidly. When it almost looked as though it was about to crash into the ground below, its wings opened with an audible crack, the resultant stress on its body tremendous.

The change of direction was sudden, it planed horizontally above its still firing enemies and opened its huge jaws. Out from its cavernous mouth came a jet of dark green liquid, expelled with such a force that its impact on the first of the metallic creatures, sent it tumbling. That however, was not the only effect.

Wherever the fluid touched metal boiled away, its corrosive force irresistible. Drops spattering out from the impacted creature burned their way through another’s limbs, causing two of the spindly appendages to snap and the creature to crumple to the floor. The spider-like construct frantically tried to scrabble its way upright, yet only managed to turn in a jerky circular motion. Its misery did not last very long, as on its next pass the beast destroyed it.

Under attack, the metallic creatures adapted, their close formation splitting apart, and once more a barrage of high energy soared upwards. One round burnt through the membrane of the beast’s left wing, destabilising its flight, the strain of its evasive tactics finally taking its toll. Bones splintered under the extreme stress, collapsing one gigantic limb and sending the beast crashing to earth.

As the beast tumbled, it smashed its way through the city, demolishing buildings with the sheer force of its momentum. At last it lay still, unmoving and the creatures skittered their way towards it tentatively. One huge eye opened, teeth snapped and more of its enemies fell. Again they moved back and once more bombarded the beast from distance.

This time it was no use, there were simply too many of them and it had no more strength. Its remaining wing flapped feebly, corrosive liquid dribbled from its mouth burning into the ground where it fell, and with a gigantic shudder, the beast died.

The creatures stayed for a time, as though waiting to see if it was truly dead, then as one they turned towards the now unprotected tower.

Chapter Eight

The Tower
Diadem
Unassigned Space

The creature slept. It was old, so old that it had even forgotten its own name, but not its purpose. Here in the almost perpetual night of the city, it waited; its task to defend home and treasure. Any and all who had once lived here had been the food which kept it alive, but they were long gone now and all that remained for sustenance were its own offspring.

It lived in a perpetual downward metabolic cycle; birth drawing hard on its remaining reserves, which then in its consumption became death. A clawed hand flashed outwards, catching the thing which slinked out of the dark. They never learned, their racial drive for domination was written deep within their genetic code. With the minimum expense of energy, it bit off the thing’s head, chewed once and swallowed.

One enormous lazy eye looked upwards, the spinning shapes hung in low orbit, their rapid pulsations making them blink in the night sky. At its most rudimentary level the creature welcomed their activity; soon sustenance would be here.

*

A small ship dropped out of warp; its on-board instruments questing and finally locking on the now powerful signal. Carefully it advanced forward, like a beast sniffing for danger; cautious, its savagery held in check until it was needed.

Then, a small spheroid split from the main ship, its speed incredible as it shot past the revolving objects and crashed through the planet’s outer atmosphere, where it began to glow, the still tenuous air protesting at its passage.

Once through, there was a low explosion and it spilt into numerous separate parts which sprayed out fan-like, across the sky.

*

Below, the creature watched languorously, as the spectacle unfolded. Strange feelings surged upwards, emotions long forgotten; anticipation, anger and ultimately hunger.

*

Sleek cylindrical shapes surged downwards, quickly reaching terminal velocity, their fluted sides whistling as their self-generated wind roared past. Their tops were broad, thinning to a sharp point at their furthest extremity, which made them appear like inverted cones. Each of them slammed into the earth, clawing their way downwards into the protesting dirt and rock, until finally they came to rest. Steam rose from the holes they carved as their outer skins cooled rapidly, throwing off the memories of their violent passage through the air.

Whirring quietly a circle of metal began to rise from the head of each construction, finally blowing free with an explosive snap. Segmented limbs unfolded, tentatively probing, before gripping fiercely and pulling the concealed contents of the drop pod free. One by one, accompanied by a fierce clicking they rose from their self imposed prison, righting themselves on four spindly legs.

Spider-like, a spherical metallic body hung suspended from the limbs, swaying slightly. Two bright red lights blinked, before burning in a steady glow. Moving jerkily on knife life feet, they joined together and as one pack advanced on the silent city.

*

The creature knew they were there, and it unfurled its great leathern wings, holding them outstretched and motionless for a heartbeat. With a great leap and a massive down stroke it rose into the air, its muscles complaining at the unexpected demand. Then with ponderous beats it moved to meet the oncoming threat.

Behind it, there rose from various buildings a cloud of small flying creatures, their hunger overcoming the fear of their parent. Together they sped towards the advancing constructs, avarice gleaming in their eyes.


The Galleon
Unknown Location
Fold Space

“How long?” asked Arn, as the Galleon continued its seemingly endless journey through the warp.

“Not much longer,” replied Walters turning to face him, “the signal becomes stronger.”

Then Walters face twisted in anger, his eyes flashing, and a low growl began deep in his throat.

“My Lord, what is it?” questioned Arn, worried at the change in Walters.

“Others have found it!” he snarled, whirling to stare out of the view screen, but there was nothing to see, “Prepare the men,” he said more calmly now, “this is not going to be as easy as I thought!”



The Tower
Diadem
Unassigned Space

A scream of rage echoed through the sky, as the creature realised that there was no food here, the metallic nature of its enemies would give no sustenance. With an inclination of its great wings, it banked and turned, its great maw opening. Its mistake meant that it would have to expend much of its depleted resources now in the destruction of its unknown foes. Its jaws opening and closing it began its harvest, its offspring would provide.

*

As one, numerous pairs of red eyes focussed on the beast, commands were passed and metallic carapaces split. Slender rods extended out from the constructs’ shells, locking into place and then following the creature’s flight. Bright pin points of energy coalesced at their tips and then with a shuddering roar, plasma fire surged upwards.



Outer Reaches
Diadem
Unassigned Space

“Contact! We have an unknown contact sat close to the planet’s atmosphere, my Lord,” said Arn, as he studied the read outs.

“Only one?” mused Berbatov, “Well that shouldn’t give us too much of a problem!”

“Strike that!” shouted Arn, spinning to face Walters, “We have multiple contacts, missiles I expect, and they’re headed straight for us!”

*

Walters and his party’s arrival had not gone unnoticed, as ships dropped into real space, slowing and reorienting themselves, a beam scanned and rapidly analysed them. The correct response was calculated and the once crescent shaped ship remoulded itself. Its wings extended, exposing a central cylinder and small, bulbous pods dropped down to hang heavily underneath like some kind of over ripe fruit.

Then they split apart, birthing numerous spheres whose propulsion units quickly kicked into life and hurled them towards the Galleon and its sister ships. About half way to their targets, long thin appendages flowed from their rear, solidifying in the frightful cold of space, and sticking out rigidly,quill-like, behind the now rapidly moving objects. Two red lights flicked on at the front of each of the spheres and began to blink, faster and faster the closer they got to Walters’ fleet.

*

Marius was taking a well-earned rest, chatting with some of his men about the modifications which had been made to their fighters and the advanced technology of the Delta-winged craft they had found here in the Galleon. He had just raised a glass to his lips, ready to take his first sip, when the attack alarms shrilled.

“Scramble! Scramble! We have incoming!” boomed the announcement and he raced towards his fighter, his forgotten glass bouncing once before shattering into tiny pieces on the hard decking.

“What do we have?” he demanded on the control circuit and was surprised to hear Walters’ reply.

“Captain, we’re not sure. We have multiple signals and whatever they are, they certainly aren’t friendly. They didn’t wait to get to know us, they launched immediately on our arrival in the system. You and your men are going to be vital, either as our eyes or as a means to destroy them.”

“Yes, my Lord,” responded Marius, as he approached his craft, only to be waved away by one of the ground crew.

“Oh and Captain?”, said Walters, laughter in his voice, “I hope you like your new ride.”

*

Engines roared, the signal was given and the Galleon’s new Eyotalian Fighter Wing screamed out into space. The truth was that they were not all Eyotalians, some of the original pilots from the Galleon had been placed under Marius’ command and even now it was hard to accept them. When they had removed their armoured helmets, Marius had needed all of his control not to shoot them there and then.

Well, thought Marius, at last they would see how well the unit could mesh together, no more discussions on teamwork, this was live combat.

His biggest surprise had been the delta wing waiting for him, the paint still fresh on its newly added decals; the snarling K’ran’s head and the Eyotalian Eagle. It was technologically far beyond anything he had flown before; fast, powerful and so very responsive.

Calls came in from his wingmen, verifying their status and position and in one tight formation they surged towards their unknown enemy.



The Tower
Diadem
Unassigned Space

Plasma shot skywards, yet no hit was scored; the beast’s size belied its agility. It had fed now, the gamble to consume its only known food source taken, and it was angry, so very angry.

It had taken time to beat its way upwards, to gain the height it needed to increase its maneuverability, but now it was here. Folding its wings against its body it plummeted down, its speed increasing rapidly. When it almost looked as though it was about to crash into the ground below, its wings opened with an audible crack, the resultant stress on its body tremendous.

The change of direction was sudden, it planed horizontally above its still firing enemies and opened its huge jaws. Out from its cavernous mouth came a jet of dark green liquid, expelled with such a force that its impact on the first of the metallic creatures, sent it tumbling. That however, was not the only effect.

Wherever the fluid touched metal boiled away, its corrosive force irresistible. Drops spattering out from the impacted creature burned their way through another’s limbs, causing two of the spindly appendages to snap and the creature to crumple to the floor. The spider-like construct frantically tried to scrabble its way upright, yet only managed to turn in a jerky circular motion. Its misery did not last very long, as on its next pass the beast destroyed it.

Under attack, the metallic creatures adapted, their close formation splitting apart, and once more a barrage of high energy soared upwards. One round burnt through the membrane of the beast’s left wing, destabilising its flight, the strain of its evasive tactics finally taking its toll. Bones splintered under the extreme stress, collapsing one gigantic limb and sending the beast crashing to earth.

As the beast tumbled, it smashed its way through the city, demolishing buildings with the sheer force of its momentum. At last it lay still, unmoving and the creatures skittered their way towards it tentatively. One huge eye opened, teeth snapped and more of its enemies fell. Again they moved back and once more bombarded the beast from distance.

This time it was no use, there were simply too many of them and it had no more strength. Its remaining wing flapped feebly, corrosive liquid dribbled from its mouth burning into the ground where it fell, and with a gigantic shudder, the beast died.

The creatures stayed for a time, as though waiting to see if it was truly dead, then as one they turned towards the now unprotected tower.

Chapter Seven

Church Fleet
High Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

Shan lay still, the foolish Churchmen believed him unconscious, so let them do so. He had at first wondered why he had been kept alive, his injuries being sufficient even to still his corrupted heart. The power of his god had infused him with pestilence, maintaining his existence day after dreary day, feeding his pain to an almost joyous level.

Now he recognised his purpose, the bubbling and putrid murmurings of the plague carriers held within him had made him wait. They also had been a gift to the Tauran, but now they were slowly consuming him from the inside out; feeding on the pus and contagion within his rotted body.

Their movements had become more frantic and the Tauran knew that the time had come. The lesser demons pushed their way out of his corroded armour, their liquid chuckling a measure of their excitement. A black and yellow bilious fluid wept out, falling to the floor in a viscous rain. Wisps of smoke curled upwards as the material corroded the decking below. As the pooling liquid continued its work, one after another of the vile creatures rolled into the hole and disappeared from sight.

Now, a shrunken figure lay upon the gurney, but Shan’s task was far from over. With each exhalation of his racked and tortured body, a fine mist of spores came into being, the impulse of his breath starting them on their journey. Momentarily they coalesced into a mucus ridden cloud, then just as quickly dispersed, pulled away by the circulating air within the room.

Breathing became more difficult as the expulsion of the foetid miasma physically drained him, eventually all that was left was a crumpled and corroded shell, the last of its toxins leaking out drop by drop, falling down into the burnt out hole and continuing into the depths below.

*

The door opened slowly and Inspector Frings led his team inside, his angry shout causing weapons to be drawn and trained directly at the Tauran’s body.

“Stay away!” Frings screamed at a Stormtrooper who had approached the still smoking hole, his hand crashing against the general alarm button. A harsh howling began, the response to the deadliest of threats, and door after door slammed shut, sealing the party within the small room.

Frightened faces peered at him and one braver than most, asked the question they all wanted answering, “W-w-what do we do now?”

“We pray,” replied Frings, his shaking hand pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, “and ask for the Prelate’s blessing on our journey to His side.”

*

Rating Weaver carried the tray of food down the corridor, whistling to himself. He for one was not too upset that they had arrived to find the Tauran Fleet already gone or, if the rumours were correct, destroyed. It was a much easier life when normal routine was allowed to flourish and prosper. His job was to make sure that the officers were fed and cared for, a sometimes onerous task depending on the individual and their particular requirements, but one he quite enjoyed.

As he passed by the grille of the ventilation shaft, a tiny clawed hand snaked out, swiping quickly and opening a small cut on the rating’s neck. Weaver clapped his hand to the wound, involuntarily dropping the tray as pain rippled through him. His puzzled look turned quickly to fear as his limbs began to shake uncontrollably and an overwhelming dizziness made him try to cling to the wall.

A horrible laughter rang through his head and flecks of blood appeared at the corners of his eyes, boils erupting from his skin in quick succession. Cramps tore at his stomach and he vomited black liquid which seemed to heave of its own volition. With a final long drawn out scream he collapsed, his body thudding to the floor amidst the still moving liquid.

Again a horrid cackling came from the ventilation shaft, followed by a curious shuffling, then there was only silence.

*

Death stalked the ship’s corridors, its attack silent yet deadly. The Immortals themselves watched helplessly as one after another, their Church comrades fell. There was no distinction of rank nor privilege, all died equally, in screaming gut-wrenching pain. Some of the Troopers had found breathing equipment and as such had saved themselves for now, others were not so lucky.

It was obvious where the source of infection had come from, but there was no way to reach the Inspector and his party and it was far too late. Even now, the Immortals made their way as fast as they could to the Bridge, their decision on how to save the ship taken. They must vent all of the atmosphere, killing any survivors it was true, but also ridding the cruiser of this air borne disease.

Their logic was sound, however there were a number of factors they had not taken into account.

*

Frings stared at the remains of the now identified Tauran Adept, an abject terror fighting to claw its way out of his head. The decision to bring this thing on board had been his, over riding any words of caution from the cruiser’s Chaplain and the senior officers on board. He had seen only glory, the interrogation and subsequent use of any information would have surely raised him high amongst his peers.

Now there was only death and ignominy, but at least he would not live to witness it. Then he heard the rasping sound coming from the corpse, accompanied by a horrendous stench of corruption. Slowly the armour began to swell, fluid leaking from its fractured components, yet still it began to pulse with evil life. A silent scream began deep in his throat as Shan’s eyes opened, glowing a baleful and malevolent red.

*

Bodies lay, twisted and grotesque, exactly where they had fallen, pools of liquid seeping slowly out from underneath them. With an abrupt crack, the screws holding the ventilation grill parted and the slatted piece of metal dropped to the floor. A hideously gnarled and wart covered face peered cautiously out of the concealing darkness, then a squat bulbous body squelched over the rim of the shaft and plopped to the floor.

Rolling slightly the creature made its way to the first of the corpses, licking the slime covered hand before it and cackling with glee. It hopped slightly as a burst of putrid flatulence half-raised it into the air and it began to hum. Another of the creatures joined it, followed by more, their evil croons producing in the unholy chorus.

At first nothing happened and then the hand of the corpse twitched, one finger almost imperceptibly flicking upwards. Rotating slowly, the demon watched with satisfaction as one after another of the bodies moved, groans of protestation flowing from their lips. Bubbling laughter echoed through the silent corridors, as the dead began to rise.

*

The crack in Sargeant Arius’ armour was tiny, almost imperceptible but the spores found it anyway. They wiggled their way through the metallic skin and then began burrowing into the Immortal’s flesh. Entering his bloodstream they were attacked by the enhanced metabolism of the soldier and a titanic struggle took place; spores multiplying exponentially threw back the constituents parts of Arius’ immune system and corrupted all around them.

Suddenly the Sargeant coughed, a wet slickness covering the inside of his face plate. Arius’ companion looked at him with some concern, Immortals were not known for their susceptibility to disease and under the present circumstances it rang alarm bells.

Arius waved his arm depreciatingly, “Dry throat,” he murmured, yet even then he was lost, although he yet did not know it.

His brother Immortal moved forward slightly, checking around the corner of the corridor and Arius began to tremble and sweat, the convulsions slight although another indication of the efficacy of the spores. His mind began to wander and horrid visions cascaded through his thoughts.

With one final shudder it was over, his piercing blue eyes filling with a virulent red fluid as his superhuman body finally succumbed. Stealthily he approached his comrade, his now unslung axe raised up high. There was no sound as he slammed the hilt of the weapon down onto his brother’s head, the force sufficient to split open the other’s helm. Savagely he tore off his own helmet and quickly that of his unfortunate companion joined it. The other man had been forced down onto one knee and was groggily shaking his head. Snarling bestially Arius leapt forward and bit down, tearing a chunk of flesh from the weakened man’s throat.

His already virulent saliva mixed with the welling blood from the ragged wound, so passing on the now enhanced plague spores, which rapidly destroyed the soldier’s stricken defenses.

Standing back, Arius gazed on, a cunning smile playing on his lips. A shuffling, shambling noise could be heard behind him and he turned to welcome his undead brothers.

*

One leg after another slipped off the medical gurney and Shan creaked to his feet. Frings screamed now, all pretence at bravado having disappeared. A trooper sprinted forward, his rifle spitting rounds at the Tauran, who only laughed as ragged holes appeared and then slowly closed. He reached one gauntleted hand forward, grasping the terrified Trooper by the throat and crushing his windpipe effortlessly. Death personified, he strode forward, calmly murdering one after another, until only the Inspector remained.

“I denounce thee in His name,” mumbled Frings, rapidly making the sign of his Order.

Shan roared with laughter, casually backhanding the Inspector across the face. The force of the blow threw Frings across the room, crashing against a nearby table and collapsing in a heap upon the floor.

“Poor little man,” whispered Shan, grasping the front of Frings’ tunic in one hand and lifting him to his feet, “I’m sure you are wondering what is going to happen to you …….?”

Quite deliberately he drew the Inspector’s face close to his and kissed him full on the mouth, “Welcome brother……” he purred.

*

Ever so subtly, the structure of the battleship began to change, metal corroding and becoming almost fluid. Boils and pustules grew on the ship’s external skin, covering laser batteries and launch bays, as the virulent plague slowly consumed all of what was once a proud Church vessel. The engines pulsed with power and ignoring the frantic hails of the rest of the fleet , the enormous craft got underway.

*
Striding purposefully down the corridor leading to the bridge, Shan greeted his new brothers. Immortals lined the passage, their armour darkening and changing before his eyes. Colours ran slowly down their shoulder guards as their Church emblems twisted in silent pain. Underneath a new pattern began to emerge, burned into the very metal itself.

With a swish the bridge doors opened and Shan looked on at the partially rotten body of the Admiral, half melted into his chair. A death’s head grin flitted across the undead officer’s face as he peeled himself from his seat and expansively waved his new master forward.

“Now,” said Shan, “We can leave. Our Lord has given us a new task and directions so that we can follow this upstart Walters. Let us be on our way, but first …..”

Virulent streams of sickness poured from the battleship’s main weaponry, impacting against the unsuspecting Church Fleet as Shan looked on with satisfaction. Very soon his undead army would be ready, and the new Tauran Champion could lead them into battle.

Chapter Six

The Tower
Diadem
Unassigned Space

The city was dark and brooding; a jet black pall of cloud clung perpetually to its tall spires. No breeze gently stroked its filigreed buildings, no laughter rang through its vaulted halls. Death had stalked its once bright streets and garlanded avenues, and had decided to stay.


At the centre of the gloomy and pain-ridden metropolis rose a tall thin spire, its top sharply truncated, clashing with the clean lines of the surrounding buildings. A ridged shape was wrapped tightly against the fluted tower, terminating in a diamond like block which lay flat and unmoving.

The base of the structure flared outwards, inside was one circular room; symmetrically perfect in construction. Its walls were covered in jewels whose reflective brilliance was hidden behind the shadowed façade.

One pulse of light stroked the walls, their reflective properties enhancing its purity and clarity. Bouncing rays struck again into the centre of the room, and the beacon awoke.

Now the pulses became stronger, reinforced, and finally a pure beam of energy thrust skywards, its progress halted momentarily by the block laid flat over the tower’s pointed tip. Insistently the beam struck again, forcing its way outwards.

With a protesting roar of anger, the creature raised its head and saw the lance of light escape, tearing out into space, where it struck against a series of revolving shapes. These too flared into life, sparkling with energy. They spun faster and faster, resonating in time with the light’s waveform. Reaching their utmost capacity of charge, they began to broadcast a low and repetitive song.

The beam suddenly winked out, the creature lowering its head and once more closing its eyes. Deep in the tower, light continued to flash, the jewels ensuring that the newly awakened beacon would not die. They illuminated the strange dais set to one side and the dry and desiccated pair of wings resting upon it.

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

Funeral pyres burnt across the extent of the battle field, soldiers using flamethrowers to ensure the vile and rotted corpses ignited. The battle was long over and Walters and his men were, in their own way, cleansing the memory of the conflict.

Troop transporters settled slowly to ground, their cargo doors folding outwards with steady grace. Of the original regiments only the Lutheran and Eyatolians remained. Those others who had survived had been press ganged into service, helping to ferry the dismembered remains to the central pits along with the other soldiers.

They would now all be leaving this world, Walters had promised that none would be left behind. Their new commander had already been ferried up to the Galleon with his bodyguard and advisors. His remaining command structure had remained behind to organise the uplift of personnel and machinery.

None of them had been informed of their next destination, but even the least of them was less than concerned. Walters had proven to them that he was much more than a simple leader and they would willingly follow him wherever he went.

*

Marius watched as the last of the tanks was backed on board and waited until his men were also inside. His combat helmet dangled by its straps from his arm, ready to be placed on his head before he climbed into the waiting fighter. Fuel had been found and so he and the remainder of his wing were to fly the craft off this world. Walters had explained it simply enough, where they were going they would need all the firepower that they had. He had promised various upgrades to the craft and the chance to use them once again in combat.

The captain was not so sure, he had enjoyed fighting close alongside his men; the disciplined strike of their short swords, the adrenalin rush as they had driven their enemies into dust. It was not something he could give up lightly.

As the transport heaved itself up into the air, he shook his head and raced to his waiting fighter. This was one rush he knew about and if this was to be his last time, he was determined to enjoy it.

*

Viker huddled close to the rest of the members of his platoon, although some of them, particularly Alana looked at him strangely, reverentially. He had been blessed on the battle field and many still yearned for the privilege of that honour. Corporal Johns also treated him differently, more like a brother than a common soldier and he was still finding that hard to come to terms with. Shouldering his pack, he moved to take his place in the line, but Johns pulled him aside.

“No, son,” he said, “Leftenant Krantu has asked that you join his command directly.”

“But …” began Viker, but Johns shook his head and clapped him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry about the rest of us,” he said, “we’ll be joining you soon enough.”

With a friendly shove the Corporal pushed him towards the waiting Leftenant and his men, who were about to climb aboard the pinnace. Looking back once, Viker saw the envy on his companions’ faces, quickly replaced by pride as he was welcomed into his new role.

*

Finally all of the troops were lifted off the planet’s surface, the ships taking their place alongside the Galleon and the other warships. A command was given, then one by one they jumped into the waiting anonymity of fold space.

Church Fleet
High Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

“Where are they!” screamed the Admiral, as report after report came in from the planet.

“They’re all dead, Sir,” replied General Grimes, doing his best to calm the explosive situation.

“Three full Regiments? How is that possible?”

“You’ve read the reports on the debris from the space battle, I assume?” asked Grimes carefully.

“Of course”, snapped the Admiral, “Do you take me for a fool, sir?”

“No,” responded the General, trying to keep his temper in check, “my only point is that we can see from the hulks floating in space, the myriad of destroyed vessels and other things, that a major Tauran Fleet was defeated here. The amount of men and machinery they would have thrown at the planet, would indicate that three Regiments would have been significantly outnumbered.”

“Granted, Grimes….”, an incoming transmission, broke into their conversation and the Admiral listened intently, before turning to the General once more, a small smile of satisfaction on his lips, “they’ve found a survivor and they’re bringing him here right now!”

*

The Church Fleet had recently arrived after a fruitless search for their enemies. They had continued with the plan of garrisoning worlds, but with no news of contact, from any of their outposts, they had begun retracing their tracks. When they had emerged into real space around Argent III, every single alarm had sprung into strident life and what they found was incomprehensible to them.

There was evidence of a major battle; broken ships, countless corpses spinning in the cold vacuum of space and the residues of vast discharges of energy. Painstaking examination of all that was left, still weakly held by the planet’s gravitational pull, revealed nothing.

Deployment of troops onto the planet’s surface was even more disheartening; vast swathes of land were burned and blackened, pits containing broken and twisted bones still smouldered and stank with the familiarly sweet smell. Discarded equipment lay as a mute testimony to the ferocity of the conflict waged there.

Squads of men and machinery combed the land and any hope of finding survivors fast disappeared. That is until they found, hidden and partially crushed beneath the remains of a battle tank, the sole Tauran Elite.

*

“Where is he?” asked Grimes, as he entered the hanger bay.

“They’re bringing him up now General,” said the Sargeant in charge of the squad of Guardsmen.

“How is he?” queried the General, quickly looking over the heavily armed group of men.

“Apart from being the mis-begotten whelp that he is?” responded the Sargeant, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, “Well he’s alive, if that’s what you want to know, sir. That is, he’s clinging to the parody of plague-infested life that represents his existence.”

“Is he still dangerous?” questioned Grimes, a slight tremor of fear apparent in his voice.

“Always …” replied the Sargeant, turning to watch the shuttle which even now was entering the bay.

A tramp of feet heralded the arrival of the Fleet’s own pet Inspector, accompanied by a bevy of troopers. They were heavily armed and carried great lengths of silvered chain with them.

“General,” acknowledged the man, dressed in a high necked tunic, his long hair tied in a pony tail which cascaded down his back. His clothing was free of any adornment, yet he carried himself with an inherent air of arrogance.

“Frings,” said the General, nodding in recognition of the other’s rank and station.

“We’ll take it from here,” said the Inspector, in his tone an implicit dismissal of the superior officer.

Grimes started, as though he had been slapped, but gracefully withdrew. This man was dangerous, his reputation preceded him.

Inspector Frings watched the General leave and then turned to the Sargeant, “Very well, Sargeant, it appears as though we are ready. You can bring him out now!”

*

They did as they were told, the body strapped to a medical gurney, ties around the man’s remaining arm and leg. His armour was cracked and broken and a black miasma leaked slowly outwards. Now and then a horrific face seemed to peep out from between the fractured remains of what had once been metal, snarled and then disappeared once more. A putrid stench of rotting flesh instantly pervaded the area and more than one of the troopers gagged and fought the urge to vomit.

With a peremptory wave of his hand, the Inspector indicated that the chains be brought forward and his men obeyed, more in fear of Frings than the Tauran himself.

“Bind him,” he snarled, removing a handkerchief from his tunic pocket and genteelly covering his nose with it.

Horrid curses filled the air and the smell became stronger as the bound figure struggled, a rotten yellow fluid leaking to the decking. Straps began to strain and without any command, the Sargeant strode forward and slammed the hilt of his pistol between the Tauran’s eyes, who slumped back against the bed of the trolley.

“Thank you Sargeant,” murmured Frings, “that was exactly what was required.”

Now chained and bound, the limp figure was wheeled away, Inspector Frings in silent pursuit.

Chapter Five

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

This was, Berbatov knew, what he was created for; his halberd was a whirling, slashing promise of death. Its blade sparkled with power, flashing back and forth, leaving only dismembered husks behind. His laughter rang out and his men joined in, their battle madness total in its abandon.

One Tauran planted himself in front of Berbatov’s armoured figure, in his hand a distorted sword whose blade’s form wavered as buzzing flies coalesced around it. The Tauran’s armour moved as though it carried something hidden inside; a writhing and shuddering constantly wracked the hideous frame.

“Time to die!” it buzzed, as bloated insects entered its open mouth.

“How trite, but true,” responded the Sargeant carelessly cutting the mutated figures in front of him out of his way.

“Ready, when you are!” he said cheerfully and swung his halberd.

*

Marius climbed down from his cockpit and watched as the two delta-winged craft flew past. Only five of his men had survived the brutal dog fight, and they too had landed with the hope that Walters’ troops had somehow managed to find sufficient ammunition to allow them back into the air.

“Sir! Sir!” called a voice nearby, and he turned to find a young infantry Leftenant waiting nearby.

“Yes, Leftenant?” answered Marius, returning the fresh faced Officer’s salute.

“Captain Marius, Sir,” he said snappily, “I formally relinquish command, Sir!”

It was only then that Marius saw the soldiers hunkered down nearby, staring warily in his direction. He peered into the gloom and saw the distinctive shape of tanks, their turrets pointing out towards the enemy.

“Command?” he queried, only now noticing the distinctive short swords and cap badges.

“Yes, sir!” responded the Leftenant, looking at the eagle emblem stitched onto the front of Marius’ tunic, laurel leaves grasped in its claws as it screamed its defiance, “What are your orders?”

Argent III
Zone of Conflict
Second Church Protectorate

Viker opened his bleary eyes and saw Corporal Johns’ weather beaten face staring down at him.

“Welcome back, son,” said Johns, standing and moving away.

“W-what hit me?” asked Viker, every muscle in his body aching.

“You have been blessed,” returned the Corporal, “given a great gift, which you must use wisely.”

“Pardon?” said Viker, his confusion evident.

“Our Lord has chosen you, endowed you with His power,” stated the Corporal, “Are you ready?”

Stiv checked his body carefully, there were no obvious wounds and he swung his legs off the cot, carefully testing his ability to stand. He moved in front of the mirror and stared in amazement at the face looking back at him. The thing that struck him most were his eyes, their normal ice-blue colour had changed to a deep green. Unknowingly he began to growl.

“Exactly,” echoed the Corporal, “so I ask you again, are you ready? The boys are waiting.”

He looked enquiringly at the Corporal who grinned savagely, “There’s plenty more of the enemy out there,” he said, his arm waving generally in the direction of the Tauran forces, “have you finished in here?”

The young soldier felt energy begin to pour through his body, revitalising him and nodded at Johns.

“Good!” snarled Johns, “Let’s get going then!”, and without another word he sprang out of the door, Viker following close behind. Suddenly, Stiv felt imbued with an incredible strength, the growl in his throat turning into a full-blooded howl. From all around came his answer and he saw shapes racing to join him. In leaps and bounds they came, bodies changing as they sprang to his side; muscles writhed, teeth were bared in anticipation and weapons were tossed aside.

Then he knew, he could feel Walters ahead slicing his way through their enemies. Without conscious thought, his claws snicked into place and at last Viker joined his pack.

*

Arn waited with the rest of his men aboard the Galleon; he would not be needed, things seemed to be going exactly as planned. The fat transports waited too, their cargo would soon arrive; at this moment it was being created in the maelstrom of battle below.

Amongst the seething mass of Tauran troops, there were two clear islands of relative calm. Within the eye of this tainted plague infested storm, Church troops replenished ammunition, repaired equipment and then once more smote their enemies.

Captain Marius was in one such place, the remaining Eyotalians gathered around him as he spoke. He had utilised the cockpit of his now stranded fighter as a platform from which to address his new command.

He spoke of Walters, of his call to battle and pointed towards the spearhead of Berbatov and his troops who were carving their way methodically through their foes. Marius’ oration included their long and proud tradition of battle, and the opportunity they held within their hands today; they too could write a glorious page in the history of their people. His speech was crowned by the more than symbolic gesture of unsheathing the short sword belted to his waist.

The men roared in approval and, as one, hundreds of sparkling swords joined in this veneration,” Walters!” they screamed, “A-ve! A-ve!”

*

Walters was surrounded, a score of Tauran Elite had him pinned within the circle of their pestilent weaponry, or so they thought. He merely smiled as they advanced, waiting patiently, his arms held loosely by his sides. The furore of the battle field had faded into insignificance for all of the players in this cameo performance.

Suddenly, Walters moved, his arm flashing forward and catching one of the Taurans by his wrist, with a quick twist Walters snapped his bone cleanly. He twisted the dangling hand and slammed the owner’s sword into his own chest. Powering backwards he stamped his heel into the chest of another opponent, shattering armour and ribs alike and punching the Tauran off his feet, to fly uncontrollably into two of his fellows.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Walters claws slid into view, energy crackling around them. His subsequent strikes were lightning fast, cleaving armour, chopping flesh and tearing immense wounds wherever they touched. The Taurans demon-augmented bodies were snail-like in their responses, in comparison to Walters speed, and his wild laughter rang out.

A savage howling impinged on his consciousness, but he did not stop; each death brought him closer to the ordained moment.

*

Berbatov could now see Walters and the fact that he appeared alone, drove him to new heights. His whirling halberd was a blur, powerful double strokes pulled him through his enemies. He no longer danced nor moved to avoid incoming blows, he simply smashed his way through them. At his side came the rest of his men, their brutal attacks mirroring his own, nothing could stand in their way.

Those that tried to flee or were simply too far away were cleaned up by Marius and his men. Their disciplined and methodical pace was awesome; shoot, stamp and strike, they cleaved their way through with finesse. Tanks rolled on behind them, their battle cannons tossing shells far ahead, gauging huge holes in the Tauran ranks.

This escaped Berbatov, his only thought was to reach his Lord’s side, he cared not how many of the enemy interposed themselves in his way, all would die.

*

From almost the opposite direction, Viker led the charge. His new found powers melded naturally with his transformed physique and he roared, howled and killed. Johns stood by him, deflecting blows where needed and protecting Viker’s back. He seemed to have automatically fallen into the role, yet it seemed so natural.

*

Uther and his men rejoined Walters, crashing through the final resistance to reach his side. Their help was not needed, as even as they rushed to his aid, Walters skewered the last of the Taurans on his claws, driving them through his putrid armour and into his sternum. With a wrench of his shoulders he ripped them back out and howled his triumph to the skies.

“Are you well, my Lord?” asked Uther, kneeling in obeisance.

“Never better!” replied Walters and as they watched his body began to glow.

*

Troopers moved slowly across the field, harvesting souls for their Lord. A whine of pain would attract them, a swift slash of claw or knife would stifle their cries and on then the gruesome work would continue.

Marius watched his men as they too did their duty, his thoughts turning to the rapid change in his fortune. From fighter pilot to leader of men in one short day; he missed the exhilaration of riding his war beast, but today he had found something new.

“Sir!” cried one of his men, pointing at an incandescent point of light, “What is it?”

Saying nothing, Marius began to run, his men swiftly falling in behind.


Argent III
Geosynchronous Orbit
Second Church Protectorate

Arn felt the change, the burgeoning godhood of his Lord, and fell to his knees, arms raised in adulation.

Berbatov had now reached Walters’ side and he too crashed unbidden to the floor, his men following his example. An unbearably bright light suffused Walters’ body, radiating outwards and painting the surrounding terrain an eerie shade of green.

Far across space others trembled or roared their defiance and on one small planet, a beacon began to glow.

Urion - Man or Myth

Urion’s Belt


Excerpt from A History of Urion: Man or Myth


Centuries passed and internecine war changed to intergalactic war with the Tauran Confederation ever expansive. Solar system after solar system fell until they ran headlong into the seven systems which made up the loose association of the Ori.

Seven separate Houses, each claiming descent from the Great One himself, attempted to physically convince their neighbours of the folly of their ways. The Taurans’ arrival provided the catalyst for the birth of the greatest figure within known history.

Stories vary on where he came from, one tells of a meeting of the Great One with a poor farmer, who fed the hungry giant. Afterwards the farmer was asked what was his greatest desire and he said a son, he had worked hard all of his life and had never found anyone willing to share in his hardships. The Great One took pity on him, and asked him to bury the remains of their meal in one of the farmer’s most fallow pastures. As the poor man slept, the Great One returned and breathed life into the bones and meat that lay between the earth. The following morning, the farmer found a mewling babe there and gave praise to His Mighty Lord.

This was then used to explain the differences seen between Urion and other men, how he was marked out for greatness from an early age. Although scholars expostulate that Urion was in fact a half-breed, born from a union between the Taurans and the Ori. This theory has been denounced by the Church Orders as heresy and the relevant scholars excommunicated.

Whatever his meagre beginnings he rose rapidly, commanding men and then armies. He united first one planet and then another, driving the Tauran invaders from his home world and continuing his campaign until he was proclaimed defender of the Faith and given the first of the seven sacred jewels. Here was where his legend was born.

The sacred jewels have been studied and written about in other texts, their miraculous powers have become the property of the Church and no-one can be certain of their true nature. It is written that they were a gift from the Great One himself and given to Urion as a means to unite the people. Whatever they really were or what powers they truly held has been lost in the mists of time.

Tauran fleets strove to exert their dominion over Urion’s forces and system after system joined his banner, until all of the seven Great Houses bowed before him. For each House was crafted a singular jewel, and each jewel was endowed with mystical power.

Urion was reputed to be a giant of a man and the jewels were fashioned into one spectacular adornment which he carried with him into battle. They were set into the buckle of his great belt, on which hung his divine sword. There was no-one who could stand against him and he smashed the combined Tauran fleets in one epic battle.

Urion led his forces against the Tauran Confederation and all fell before him. A lasting peace was enforced and Urion led his people into a golden age. In time Urion was crowned ruler of all known space and he took unto him a wife. Their seven sons grew strong and were given the rule of the Houses of Ori.

This caused much discontent and signalled the start of the First Civil War. Urion reunited his forces and put down the rebellions, in so doing he was forced to kill six of his seven sons, who had been swayed by the entreaties of the corrupt Houses.

Only the youngest of his sons survived, and foreswearing all claim to his kingdom and his rights, he took his young family and was lost from all records..

It is during this period that historians diverge in their recounting of Urion’s life. Some claim that he was mysteriously taken to the Great One’s bosom and rests there still. Other, less religious men talk of poison, even regicide, but the only thing that can be confirmed is that Urion and his belt disappeared. The jewels themselves still reside with the scions of each great House, waiting it is said for Urion’s return.

Of the belt, less is known although this historian would like to believe the story held by the Rigelians, who claim that a loyal servant spirited it away and fled to Urion’s youngest son’s side. The belt is so held to be with the line of Urion’s only faithful son and, one day, will be returned to his long suffering people in triumph.

As this historian has said, it is his fervent wish that this would be true, although being a pragmatist, this writer in truth holds no hope for this occurrence.

In the following chapter, will be described the rise of the seven Great Houses and their dominion over the Tauran Confederation.


*

Our dim lit halls cry out your name,
Broken buildings alight with flame,
Ragged flags lie limp with pain,
And tears run freely as the rain.

Where art thou Lord, what do you do?
Your people hope with faith anew,
To run, to laugh, to hear, to see,
A dream come true, our heartfelt plea.

They struck you down, in all your might,
Our golden dream then put to flight,
A heel that crushes hard, that smears
The brightest star, expands our fears.

Come home to us and raise us high,
Your warrior’s roar becomes our cry,
Enemies will quake with fear,
When once again you draw us near.

Urion your people wait,
Here in front of death’s dark gate,
Lead us is our clarion call,
And watch how our dreaded foes do fall

-Anonymous-

Chapter Four

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

“Die you frakker!” screamed Marius, his fingers pressing again and again on the fire control button. He had passed through the calm and controlled commander phase and was only now interested in killing his enemies. This was a nightmare, he had no idea how many men he had left, and in fact cared little. The only thing fixed in his mind was the next enemy that crossed his sights. In such a target rich environment, it was easy to lose yourself.

His last Spitfire missile speared outwards, obliterating his target; a slow moving bomber which had lined itself up for a run at the AA batteries. All he had left were his auto-cannons and he was determined to make every last one of these Tauran frakkers pay. Screaming his anger aloud he roared as he fired, “Walters, where are you? This is for you!”

A calm washed over him, an exhilarating energy he had never felt before. He heard Walters’ voice ringing in his mind, “I know my son, have faith!”

The curious thing was that he did, and unbelievingly he felt his laser cannon power up. It burnt with a pure green fire and he aimed at his enemies and felt the screaming bolt tear them apart. There was none of the usual waiting time, rather he seemed to have infinite charge in his weapon. The auto-cannon was spent, his missiles were gone and yet his laser cannons carried a sort of divine flame.

A message entered in his brain, he heard the words whispered and he did indeed believe. His voice rang through all of his surviving wingmen’s speakers, “Have faith in Him, believe in Walters and you shall be rewarded. See how I smite our enemies!”

The channel became clogged with transmissions, “In Walters’ name! For Walters! Die you Frakker!” All worked, they had been blessed and were exultant. Their enemies could not resist the purifying fire of their lasers and down below Walters roared, grew and called more to his banner. The enemy came, they fought and they died!

*

Viker watched them come, the mutants and dispossessed herded by their masters; the Tauran Elite. He watched as the virulent armour of the fallen spewed forth clouds of bloated flies which swirled around their heads, hiding them from sight. Laser fire was ineffective against them, only dropping the monsters to the earth, yet the Taurans came on.

He looked up at Walters and found him smiling, saw him nod to his own men and stride forward. Like many Viker raged in frustration at his inability to be more than he was, to walk at Walters’ side and then miraculously his Colonel halted. He turned, his eyes flashing a pure verdant green and spoke, “Come, join me!”, was all he said and they did.

They came in their hundreds and thousands, screaming his name, yet he did not wait. He strode forwards to meet the demon possessed Taurans and they cried out in anguish. Running they tried to catch up with him, almost insane with their desire they ripped and tore their way through the unfortunates who faced them. They had no pity, no reason to forgive; their Lord walked alone and they would not be found wanting.

Walters smiled and watched them come; it was almost time, he could feel it.

The Galleon
In Transit
Fold Space

“What’s keeping us,” growled Berbatov, his halberd slamming into the wall, sending metallic sparks into the air.

“Calm down,” cautioned Arn, “we still have time!”

“But he’s alone, with nothing but a handful of men with him!” replied Berbatov in frustration.

“Have faith, my friend,” responded Arn, “When has he ever let you down?”

“Never!” snarled Berbatov , “My fear is that we will fail him!”

“Do not fear,” said Arn, his tone reassuring, “even now we arrive!”


Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate


AA batteries spewed forth their charged weapons, tanks rolled forwards and the Seventh Lutheran killed. They were inspired, nothing could stop them. Not the Tauran champions whose now plague invested bodies caused unimaginable mutations in their minions, nor the Battle Fleet which railed against them.

Elsewhere on this accursed planet, Church Troops died. They boiled in their own juices, they cursed their leaders and still they expired. Only those who fought within Walters’ sphere of influence prevailed.

Marius and his men were invincible; they harvested enemy souls as though they were nothing more than offerings to their Lord. Far out in space, the Tauran fleet despaired and when they thought they were at their lowest, they felt deceived.

Out of the vagaries of space appeared ship after ship, led by a strange three-masted vessel whose broadsides were devastating in the extreme. They ripped and tore, scalded and boiled, the very existence of their foes away. The Tauran Pagan Gods quailed at the fervour they faced, their minions were destroyed without pity, screaming into the void.

They had never faced such an enemy and knew not what to do. On the planet’s surface Walters came into his own, his long awaited ascension was imminent. He howled in triumph as his enemies fell, and his men howled with him.

With each slash of his claws they grew, with every bite of his jaws they changed, until at last they were his. Their bodies became infused with his power, their cries were only an echo of his own and in the midst of the ripping and tearing host, Viker found his God and was pleased.


Outer Atmosphere
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate


Nothing could prevail against the intense bombardments, the Tauran Battleship heaved in pain. Boils and pustules on its hull burst, throwing virulent waste, debris and ammunition outwards. A miasma of bloated flies roared out of the distorted turrets, the respective swarms obscuring the form of the vessel. Slowly the great ship got underway, its creaking and groaning shell resisting the impact of the plasma batteries by the sheer will of its demon-infused master. With one last great effort it lurched its way into fold space, leaving behind a trail of plague infested debris, which dwindled and died.

Other ships were not so lucky, the Galleon’s accompanying cruiser and two destroyers laid down a tremendous field of fire. It seemed as though they were willing to expend every last missile, every drop of plasma, and to drain completely their laser batteries. Once free of the battleship, the Galleon joined them, methodically reducing ship by ship the Tauan fleet to inexistence.

Smaller transport ships dropped out of the warp, hanging back out of the way of the seething maelstrom of fire. As a safe corridor was blasted through to the planet, they waddled their way forward, taking up a stationary position above the war stricken world below.

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

“Whoa!” gasped Marius, as a sleet delta-winged fighter screamed past him, its plasma cannons spitting forth brilliant streaks of lightning. In a matter of moments, two of the attacking craft were nothing more than rapidly dissipating balls of energy.

The swift vessel turned sharply and roared back towards him, taking up a silent but protective position to his right. He tried to contact its pilot, but received no answer.

Another silently moved into place to his left, rigidly holding a more than respective distance, seemingly their task only being to escort him.

“Got to get me one of those!” said Marius to himself, as they effortlessly matched his speed. Then at last he remembered the rest of his Wing and guiltily asked for a roll call.

*

Viker saw the blade as it arced towards his head and knew that there was nothing he could do. At the last moment, a gauntleted hand parried the blow, following through with the blade in its hand. The weapon sheared through the meagre armour of the mutant, showering Viker in a spray of bile and blood.

Beside him stood one of the armoured figures, who nodded briefly and then sprang forward into the fray once more. Stiv glanced round and saw that somehow he had left his platoon behind, he was surrounded by armoured figures and slightly ahead he saw the Colonel. He pulled his rifle from the body below him, the bayonet had become stuck in its entrails and he needed to stamp down hard in order to rip it free.

There was a soft footfall to his left and he swung the weapon sharply, but to his dismay it was caught and held. Crying out in desperation he let go of its stock and scrabbled for his combat knife, but a hand gently closed over his restraining him.

“Your fervour is admirable, soldier”, said a soft voice, “but trying to kill your commanding officer is not the done thing.”

Shame-faced, Viker looked into the grinning face of Walters and wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

“S-s-s-ir!” he muttered in chagrin, “I am so sorry!”

“Not to worry …..ah yes, Viker, isn’t it?” and then when the young man nodded, Walters continued, “Your fervour has led you to rashly leave the protection of your platoon. If you insist on being here, then I’ll just have to give you a helping hand.”

Walters eyes began to blaze with an incandescent green fire and Viker felt himself drown in their vast depths. There was a roaring in his head, a long drawn howl and then he feinted.

“Johns!” roared Walters and the Corporal raced forwards, “My Lord?” he rasped.

“Take care of him,” Walters commanded, and then more quietly, “he’s one of us now.”

Johns grinned and hefted the prone body of the soldier effortlessly onto his shoulder. The boy had shown promise and had been rewarded, today many others would receive their Lord’s gift, but Johns sensed something special about this one.

*

Elsewhere on Argent III, Church troops fought and died. They were no match for the Tauran Elite led forces, nor the swarms of bloated flies which crawled into every open orifice of their bodies. Their still warm corpses expanded grotesquely, finally exploding and each one expelling a mass of the horrific insects. Thus an expanding wave of plague-driven troopers crashed back into their own lines, ultimately propagating their fellows’ doom.

In other areas, decaying and putrid men staggered onwards, laser fire ineffective against their mindless assault. They bit and clawed at their ex-companions, infecting them even as they gorged on the fresh meat.

The only true resistance came from a mixed group of Eyotalian Lancers and Infantry. Their tanks held their position with the barrels of their battle cannons depressed to their limits, they fired high explosive rounds directly into contaminated troopers as well as the oncoming Tauran Forces. They then rolled forward, flamers and heavy bolters charring and exploding what was left.

Accompanying them was what was left of their infantry, their Leftenant had wisely ordered his men to discard their rifles and with pistols and short swords only they butchered their way through their undead foes. These weapons were a remnant of their historic past and with a steady and measured beat they swung and stabbed, cut and hacked until their arms ran with the blood of their enemies.

Cheering they celebrated their victory until the drop pods began to slam down. Wearily the Leftenant called his men to order as a new wave of mutants raced forward, and waited for the drop pods to show what new horror they would thrust upon his men.

*

Explosive bolts blew, metal flew away and out they came, howling and snarling with rage. Armoured covered bodies leaped forward, weapons blazing a constant explosive fire. A huge man led them, smashing through the desperate defence with ease, bodies crumpling into nothingness as he struck.

Berbatov had arrived, and the Tauran Forces trembled.

Chapter Three

Geosynchronus Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

“Eagle One to Eagle Base, over. I repeat, Eagle One to Eagle Base, over!” nothing, there was zero response. Captain Marius of the Eyotalian 326th Fighter Wing, ‘the Eagles’, cursed as he pounded his fist against his control panel. He had seen the destroyers implode under the vicious enemy barrage, and had heard the frantic transmissions from the cruiser as the boarders smashed their way through the final defences.

His wing had responded to his call, flying close to the automatic anti-aircraft systems of the cruiser, relying on their own friendly identification transponders to protect them. They had flown tip to tip, their autocannons blazing a metallic path of death in front of them. The enemy fighters had been unable to resist, yet the ploy had not been without casualties.

Two of their wing had been downed on the first pass by enemy missiles, another blown apart by the cruiser’s own defences. It was irrelevant now though, they had nowhere to land, the ship’s launch bays having been destroyed. Basically there were two choices, die here or try and link up with the ground forces, a slower yet no less certain death based upon the vast superiority of the enemy fleet.

Marius was leaning towards a more glorious and rapid end, here amongst the last remains of his companions. Not because he was the most heroic of men, rather the most practical. Signal strength was minimal and therefore he could not contact anyone on the planet, he had three Spitfire missiles remaining, his autocannons were less than half-full and his laser cannon was all but useless.

There was no certainty his men would feel the same way, but he had to at least give them the option. Drawing in a deep breath he reached to activate his transmitter, but was forestalled by an incoming message.


"This is Colonel Walters, seventh Lutheran calling all surviving Navy personnel. You are to disengage, I repeat, disengage from enemy contact. I am assuming overall control for this mission. You will lock on to the signal which is currently being transmitted from my temporary headquarters. Walters Out!”

Captain Marius looked curiously at his transmitter, he must have subconsciously flicked the switch to transmit after the message had finished. Cautiously he responded, “Marius here, can you verify? Over.”

“Captain, make your choice,” replied the voice flatly, “accept my invitation unconditionally or die out there. Out!”

This was more than strange, thought Marius, he had never given his rank, or had he?

*

Walters turned to face Krantu, “Don’t worry Leftenant, they’ll come.”

“My Lord, what use are a few fighter pilots,” asked the Leftenant, looking puzzled.

“I wasn’t talking about them,” grinned Walters, “however, every single person counts, or have you forgotten that?”

“No my Lord,” said Krantu, “I have not forgotten.”

“Good. Now what reports do we have of the enemy?” questioned the Colonel, changing the subject.

“Nothing as of yet, my Lord, all is quiet,” replied the Leftenant.

“That won’t last for much longer,” responded Walters, “believe me!”

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate


Viker refused the smoke stick Alana waved enticingly under his nose, it held no interest for him. Ever since his chance encounter with the Colonel earlier, he had felt energised and in need of no other substitute.

He had tried to explain what had happened, but his squad mates had just laughed. Curiously enough the only one who had not derided him was Corporal Johns, instead the grizzled veteran had simply stared. His gaze had been free of contempt, it was instead watchful, in a stern yet accepting way. Any reverie was blown away by the screaming howl of the alarms, all across the base they erupted in a manic chorus.

Johns sprang to his feet, barking orders to the relaxed men and women, using his fists and feet where words seemed to have no effect. The enemy was coming and he had no time for stragglers and he was keen to make sure that they all understood this.

“You!” he snapped at Viker, “Get your weapon and stick with me!”

”Corporal?” asked Viker, his voice quavering slightly.

“That goes for all of you!” he roared, but Viker was sure the message had been especially meant for him.



Geosynchronus Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

Drop pods were launched ceaselessly from the enemy cruisers, fighter craft were spat carelessly into space in numbers too many to count and still Marius vacillated. Right now, they were out of the main fight, hanging motionless whilst he made up his mind. More men had found their way to him, their own units ripped apart by the fury of the previous engagement and looking for someone to take charge.

“Frak this!” he muttered to himself, and then over the general frequency, “Form up, boys, we’re going to join the party. You have my absolute permission to send as many of these frakkers back to whichever ugly witch created them. For the Prelate!”

Any response was drowned out by the roar of his engines as they thrust his fighter forwards. This was much better than waiting, and who knew, maybe this Colonel Walters had a plan?

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate


Soldiers charged to and fro in a maelstrom of activity; vast amounts of ammunition were ferried to forward supply depots, armour took up its position and Guardsmen scurried to avoid their commanders’ wrath. Colonel Walters looked on, confidence in his men high. He knew that this scenario was being repeated in other areas, the Church units outside of his command reacting in their own way.

They, however, were of little concern to him at this moment, whatever part of the enemy forces they could tie up would only be a help, but was not counted in his own plan. His men needed to be blooded, to bond and find their true vocation. When the time was right he would be able to demonstrate to them exactly what was required of them and the rewards awaiting their loyalty.

No, all they needed was time, enough for Arn and Berbatov to get here. Once that happened they could deal with the Tauran forces and then their real mission could begin. As the first of the drop pods began to rain down, he smiled, his teeth bared in an animalistic pleasure. The Church Navy had left them here to die and his men would soon know that. Once they realised their predicament, they would turn to him for guidance and he would be ready.

Behind him he heard the excited growling of his K’ran bodyguard, they could feel it too. The link between them and Walters was strong and they could feel his rising excitement. Today they could kill again in the name of their Lord, their impatience to do so was palpable. Walters growled back, energy beginning to flow into him, and flexed his muscles. He was ready, let them come!

*

Viker clutched his laser rifle close to his chest, fear setting his nerves on edge. Drop pods had hit the earth close to his position and he knew it would be soon. He saw Alana’s mouth moving, but no sound issued forth. She was praying to the Great One of that he was sure, but whether it would do any good was another matter.

Johns stood nearby, one foot on top of the earthworks, staring out across the plain in front of them. Wind ruffled his shaggy hair and his face was lifted into the breeze. Viker could have sworn that he was sniffing the air, like some wild animal.

Unannounced, he turned, his eyes locking tight onto those of the young soldier’s. With a start, Viker for a moment saw them blazing an emerald green and winced at the physical impact of them. In His name, he thought, who or rather what is he?

The screeching of brakes announced the arrival of an aircar, Colonel Walters jumping down from the cabin. A low hum was heard across the lines, almost a purring of contentment, and Viker saw all of the veteran troopers staring at their commander, an almost religious fervour in their eyes. Leftenant Krantu and the two huge bodyguards were also there, their bodies tense with excitement.

The Colonel and his entourage carried no weapons, yet they did not look unarmed, instead they radiated a kind of cold and deadly violence, held in check, but soon to be released.

Stiv heard chanting and the beating of drums from out on the plain, a dark mass slowly moving forward. They were here, and he only hoped that he could stay the fear which coursed through his veins, long enough at least to do his duty.

There was a light touch on his arm and he swivelled around, finding the Colonel next to him.

“Do not worry, my son,” said Walters calmly, “I am with you!”

*

Captain Marius held his Wing under tight control; they could not afford to waste their valuable ammunition. Now his decision had been made, their only hope of survival was in reaching the Lutheran positions. Somehow he knew there would be support there, more ammunition perhaps, but at least a safe haven. He was determined to make every last round count, to maximise the destructive power of his fighters.

So with this in mind, the formation of fighters roared onwards, avoiding engagement with the enemy as instructed. The transponder signal drew them on, its bleep becoming a beacon of hope, or at least the promise of some kind of salvation.

“Walters,” muttered Marius to himself, “you had better be worth it!”

*

The semi-recognition of the Captain’s need reached Walters where he stood and he smiled. It was starting, now he would speak to the men here, would build their hunger for victory and with each chant of his name, with each pledge of loyalty, his strength would grow.

*

Uther felt his Lord’s summons and called to his battle brothers, Tor would remain here, in the pinnace, for now. The ex-Immortal checked his weapons one last time, as the others filed past him into the waiting shuttle. The craft had been kept hidden on board the pinnace, its design screaming Immortals to all.

No matter now, they were no longer Church Elite, they had a new brotherhood, a new Lord. Still, their role was the same, they would only carry it out in another’s name. One who held their total loyalty, who led them on the battlefield and imbued them with his strength. Unable to hold his eagerness in further, Uther raised his head and howled in joyous exultation, his brothers quickly joining in.

*

The stuttering roar of the anti-aircraft batteries announced the arrival of the enemy aircraft, strangely they had kept silent during the deployment of the drop pods, but now they opened up in their full splendour. Their targets appeared only to be the enemy fighters and bombers, they strictly avoided the more slow moving troop transports.

Marius and his men had no such compunction, their objective was to join up with Walters and anything that got in their way was a prime target. They had managed to maintain their identity relatively secret during their approach, their craft ignoring all hails and hugging the ground as they neared the Church-controlled positions. Finally though their disguise had been sprung and Marius had given the order to fire.

He watched as one of his precious Spitfire missiles swooped imperiously into the attack. All attempts to stop it failed and it finally tore its way through the belly of a slow-moving transport, splitting it open and sending its contents spewing downwards towards the hard ground below. He briefly saw tumbling bodies and equipment as he flashed past, another target in his sights.

*

The shuttle settled briefly to earth, disgorging its contents, before rising rapidly and tearing back in the direction it had just come from. Viker stared at the armoured men rushing forward, there had been no talk of Immortals here!

Amazingly he saw them kneel before Walters, their fists crashing against their chests. Then he recognised them as part of the crew of the pinnace, this was getting stranger by the minute. One of them carried a furled banner in his hands, which he ceremoniously held out to the Colonel. He saw Walters smile gently and nod, the armoured figure then firmly planting the shaft into the ground. The colours which unfolded were not those of the regiment, the design was the same but contained no Church numbering or prayers. A snarling beast head emerged, as the wind caught the cloth. It seemed alive, its emerald eyes reflecting in the sunlight.

As one, the armoured figures and all of the veterans knelt, then their howls rang out in a tremendous chorus. They appeared changed, bigger, more powerful and the Colonel almost god-like! What was happening?

Chapter Two

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

The world of Argent III, sat innocuously in its usual place, revolving quietly around its particularly uneventful sun. Nothing ever happened here, in fact nothing had ever happened out of the ordinary as far as the inhabitants of the planet were concerned. That is, until this one fine morning, when war came slowly yet resolutely to the system.

Ships winked into real space, taking up their predetermined positions. Shuttles began to ferry Church troops to the planet’s surface, irrespective of the local Governor’s complaints. Regiment after regiment was deployed, and the Guardsmen began to dig themselves in.

Shortly after the final troop transport was once more safely in the arms of the fleet, the main body of vessels jumped once more. They had other worlds to find, other fortifications to build and time was running out.

*

Stiv Viker was among the first to make planet fall. Somehow Johns and his platoon had been adopted by the gruff Leftenant Krantu. They had been relieved of their more mundane duties and put through some special training. Little more had been said about the unusual treatment meted out to the Inspector, but truth be told, none of them were particularly upset about Ivanov’s predicament.

An APC roared past, spraying mud into the air and Stiv delicately wiped the front of his tunic. He, like many of his fellows, took an inordinate pride in his Regimental emblem. It instilled confidence; he always felt ready for anything when he was dressed in his uniform. Even with his body armour in place, he could feel where the snarling head sat over his heart, and was comforted.

He laughed uncontrollably as he saw Alana misjudge her step and fall backwards into a muddy puddle.

“Viker!” screamed Corporal Johns, “Don’t just stand there! Give her a hand!”

The thought of clapping appreciatively did briefly flit across his mind, but it was not advisable to display too much humour in front of the testy non-com.

With a wave of agreement, he trudged forward, better positioning his backpack to make sure he did not overbalance and join her there in the middle of the road.

*

“Him there,” said Krantu softly to Walters, “he’s the one.”

“Why him?” asked Walters enquiringly, not for a moment doubting the K’ran’s judgement, rather his question was out of curiosity.

“He’s different,” replied Krantu, even after all of this time and the modifications his body had undergone, he still found it hard to talk in long sentences.

Smiling to himself, Walters insisted, “How is he different?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” replied Krantu, “but trust me, he’s the one.”

Walters watched the young soldier struggling through the mud, his hand outstretched in order to help his companion. With a heave she dragged him down beside her and they both collapsed into helpless laughter. Perhaps he is the catalyst, thought Walters to himself, only time will tell.

His attention was drawn away from the two young soldiers, as his enhanced senses felt a disturbance in the ether approaching. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.

Closing his eyes he reached out and felt the wrongness and with a snarl he turned to Krantu.

“They’re here already!” there was a snick of claws extending, as the K’ran grinned wolfishly.

“Good!” was his only answer, as he waited for further commands.

“Warn the men,” snapped Walters, his mind already calculating what they might have to do, “Ours that is!” he cautioned Krantu, “the others will just have to look after themselves!”

*

Something was going on, of that Stiv was sure. There was a new purpose in the older men, they seemed to bristle in excited anticipation. He could have sworn he had heard some of them growling to each other in low undertones, and their walk! They prowled now, like hunting beasts ready to be slipped from their leashes, hands flexing subconsciously, forgotten weapons slung on their backs.

Viker stared closely as the Colonel exited his Command Tent, Major James and Leftenant Krantu with him. A group of the men from his pinnace approached, their bodies encased in their strange power armour. They were huge men, fully as big as any of the Immortals, yet still wearing the characteristic snarling beast emblazoned on their shoulder guards.

One of them raised his visor and Stiv tried to get a better look. A rough hand jerked him away by the back of his tunic, spinning him around and there behind him was the ever present Johns.

“Stop gawking!” he hissed, “and get the rest of the platoon together. For some reason, the Leftenant has taken a personal interest in us and none of you are going to let me down!”

With a shove in the back, he was propelled rapidly across the road. Stiv risked one last glance at the group of officers and found himself staring into the unblinking green eyes of the Colonel. He felt pierced through by the Colonel’s gaze; it was as though he were being weighed on a very strict pair of scales. Smiling slightly, the Colonel turned away and Viker felt immensely disappointed, as though he had lost something and involuntarily he cried out.

Walters looked back briefly and an electrical charge seemed to pass between them, Viker feeling energised, invincible. The Colonel nodded and continued on his way, the others following meekly behind him.



The Galleon
Unknown Space

Arn rose from the Command chair and looked across at Berbatov, “Can you feel it?” he asked excitedly.

Berbatov nodded and swung a foot at a passing crewman who skipped easily out of the way. His hand reached down and touched his halberd where it lay propped against the wall. The shaft was reverberating slightly, as though in tune with some strange music.

“About time!” he grumbled bad-naturedly and then he grinned, “I was getting just a little bit bored with all this waiting. Why don’t you tell them?”

The shipboard communication system sprang into life, Arn speaking softly into the transmitter, “Our Lord calls us!”

His voice echoed around the Galleon and there came an answering howl of pure joy. Messages were passed across to the other ships and after a short wait, as one they winked out of real space in answer to the long awaited summons.


Geosynchronus Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

Admiral Baynes had stayed behind with his cruiser and two destroyers, his orders to protect the best he could the troops on the planet below. Further sealed instructions had been given to him in private; if the threat was overwhelming he was make all speed to rejoin the fleet, the information of the enemy disposition was more important than the hundreds of thousands of lives below.

He had privately questioned these orders and had been curtly rebuffed, there would be no discussion allowed. So, it was with trepidation he received the reports of multiple vessel signatures. It looked as though a fleet were due and he would have to run. Perhaps he might get the chance to at least reduce the odds before he fled, although he would only do so if the risk to his ships were minimal.

It was in an awed silence he heard the details of the estimated number of enemy vessels dropping in real space and not waiting any longer, he ordered his ships away, leaving the troops below to their potentially terminal fate.

*

There was no escape for the Church ships, a vast fleet winked into existence all around them, effectively corralling Admiral Baynes and his men. His only option was to fight and take some of the enemy with him. He ordered gun batteries charged, missiles readied and fighter craft launched. In a tight formation his three vessels ploughed onwards, directly into the centre of the opposing forces.

On his command the ships fired into unison, their concentrated fire intended to punch its way through the vessels before them. Shields flared in opposition and counter missiles were launched.

He felt his cruiser reel under the power of his enemy’s attack, three times as many of them engaged him and from all sides. No time was given for him to communicate with his destroyers as their shields were torn apart and enemy fire sent them screaming to the Prelate’s Bosom.

Alone now, he continued to fight, data streamed in of batteries overheating, missile hits against enemy ships and more against them. Hull integrity had been breached on three separate levels and there was now no return for the fighters, the launch bays having been ripped into shreds by incoming missile strikes.

Baynes saw the indication of their failing shields and the exact moment their tenuous protection disappeared. Shortly afterwards he heard reports of enemy vessels clamping on to their hull and new breaches being blown. Reports flooded in of fighting on all decks and that his men were losing, their resistance futile.

His decision taken, he ordered his Exec Officer to join him in the destruction of his once mighty vessel. An explosive detonation stopped him short as he saw the poor man reduced to a liquid spray and he knew that all now rested on him. There was no time to do this properly and he raced to ensure that this failure at least would not fall at his feet.

It was, and always had been from the moment of the enemy fleet’s arrival, too late. A backhanded blow sent him reeling backwards in his chair and he screamed in pain as a whirring blade was pushed slowly into his stomach. The owner of the weapon calmly held the Admiral in place with one booted foot and proceeded to turn the man’s entrails into a horrific soup.

Still alive, Baynes looked up into the scarred and piteous face before him, pleading for release.

“I will give you release,” sneered the man, leaning forwards and kissing the Admiral on the lips, a vile spittle passing between them. He laughed even more as Baynes’ mouth began to blister and boil, “You are welcomed,” he snarled, “into his ever-loving embrace!”