//------------------------------//
// Inside And Out 
// Story: Strange Bedfellows 
// by BRBrony9 
//------------------------------//

Sergeant Argan hated urban combat. The towering cityscape around him made him nervous. It was like fighting inside a maze, but a maze where the enemy knew every route, every shortcut, and he didn't even know where the entrance he had just come through was. An urban environment with any kind of verticality to it, such as an Imperial Hive, was the worst of all, because attacks could come from above and below as well. This city was starting to prove itself to be a prime example of exactly why he disliked such environments.

The enemy were firing from high above. At a rough estimate, crouched behind a pillar protruding from the front of one of the buildings, they were under attack from approximately the thirtieth floor of the building across the street, all glass and steel. Return fire from the Imperial infantry had already shattered a good number of windows, adding additional peril as the broken glass in most cases showered down onto the street below.

Gamma Company were pushing toward the city centre, with the aim of linking up with troops from the north and south fronts. They had faced no resistance in the outer suburbs, but the more dense business and financial districts were being heavily defended, on all flanks, according to reports. There was gunfire from above and there were enemy soldiers on the street, pinning the guardsmen down with fire from behind an improvised barricade. It was hard to get an angle on either position to return fire. A heavy stubber rattled away from the barricade, keeping their heads down. Air support would have a hard time getting a clear run, while artillery fire would just smash into the tall buildings surrounding them. It was at times like these that Argan thanked the Emperor for his armoured fist.

A single Leman Russ tank rolled up the street behind them, having negotiated its way through the rubble-choked roads. While tanks were vulnerable in urban settings, much of that vulnerability could be offset by being properly escorted by infantry, and this one had a company of guardsmen in close proximity. The enemy fire from the barricade rapidly turned its focus to the tank, bullets pinging off of its hull. Its heavy bolters answered the challenge, raking the top of the barricade with fire and killing several of the defenders. The tank's cannon roared and great chunks of the barricade itself went flying, tumbling figures visible through the smoke, the stubber gone. The tank held position while the infantry cautiously advanced, still under threat from above but with two platoons engaging the lofty positions with suppressive fire. Two squads were dispatched to enter the building and clear the upper floors.

Without warning, a missile streaked down from on high, almost directly above Argan, and slammed into the thinner roof armour of the tank's turret. A great shower of smoke and sparks were thrown up, and Argan pressed himself flush against the pillar in case the tank's magazines cooked off. They did not, and the tank, its driver at least still alive, rapidly backed up, tracks churning up the tarmac surface of the road. More enemy fire was now coming from his side of the street, up above. Merkev handed him the vox handset.

'Forest Gamma 1-1, proceed into building with pillars, left side of street! Enemy is on approximately twentieth floor. Sweep and clear, over!' Lieutenant Albrecht ordered.

'Forest Gamma 1-1, copy.' Argan tossed the handset back and signalled his squad to gather up and enter the building. They slipped inside with precise movements.

The building's lobby was fairly ornate, marble and gold filigree not matching the businesslike exterior. Several large portraits of horse-aliens adorned the walls, no doubt nobles, patrons or perhaps the founders of whatever business this building used to house. An elevator was up ahead, but it lacked power and would alert the enemy to their arrival anyway. A nearby staircase would provide their means of access. The point man moved through the door and began to ascend. The stairwell was dark, but flashlights might tip off the enemy, assuming they weren't already waiting in ambush somewhere above.

Floor by floor they climbed, hard work, heavy breathing. No enemies burst from the shadows; perhaps their deployment to this particular building had been hasty, no time for perimeter defences or booby traps. Finally they reached the twentieth floor and halted. There was definite gunfire, either from this floor or the one above. Argan ordered one fireteam to proceed up to the next floor while he led the other to clear the twentieth. On his signal five men burst through the door and out of the stairwell.

Offices were ahead, administrator's cubicles, glass partitions. Their guns swept the corners as they moved swiftly. More doors were up ahead. Suddenly two men emerged from one of them, wearing the blood-red uniforms of the enemy. Argan and the others opened fire and gunned them down. Cries of alarm could be heard up ahead. Argan swiftly pulled a grenade from his webbing, removed the pin and tossed it through the open doorway while the squad took up firing positions.The explosion sent shrapnel through the thin partition walls as papers fluttered up, disturbed by the blast. A signal sent his men forward, swinging into the room, lasguns flashing. Argan joined them. One hapless enemy, the loader of the missile launcher team, it seemed, was caught by a broken window and struck several times by las-fire. He stumbled back and fell through the opening, disappearing from sight. Three other men went down as they scrambled for cover. 

'Clear!'

'Clear,' Argan echoed. The missile crew were dead, and a sweep of the rest of the floor yielded negative results. The other fireteam reported that the floor above was also void of enemies. Argan didn't bother with a peek over the edge to the street below. If there was one thing he disliked as much as urban combat, it was heights. Having been a miner back on Parvia, the ground was his natural home, either on it or beneath it. Space travel was not too bad, though it brought its own perils with it, but it was atmospheric flight that unnerved him the most. The planetfall several weeks ago had been smooth enough, albeit rushed due to the perils of the incoming Chaos fleet, but nevertheless it was not an experience he was keen to repeat any time soon.

Argan reported their success over the vox to Lieutenant Albrecht,who ordered them to proceed to higher floors and try to engage the enemy across the street in the other building, where squads from Third Platoon were reportedly struggling to make any headway. Argan and his men climbed another ten floors, finding a room looking out across the street. Argan peered out from behind a pillar with his magnoculars.

On the thirtieth and thirty-first floors opposite, at least twenty Chaos infantry were firing down at the street below where the rest of Gamma Company were still located. They needed taking care of swiftly. Argan ordered his men into positions, holding fire. The enemy had not seen them, not noticed the brief flickering of las-fire on the lower floor as they took out the missile crew, or if they had, they were not expecting them to have repositioned. 

'Fire on my shot,' Argan ordered. 'Mark your targets, upper floor first.' He sighted in on one man, firing a lasgun down at his comrades on the street. He squeezed the trigger and the man died. The rest of the squad engaged, cutting down half a dozen more. The rest ducked behind desks and chairs as las-rounds blew burning holes into the furniture. Some of the men on the lower floor noticed the las-beams and quickly switched targets.

Plaster rained down as las-fire found the ceiling above Argan's head. His squad crouched low, though there was relatively little cover in the room, and almost nothing substantial enough to stop las-fire or a bolt round. Argan tracked another target, a man scurrying between desks, trying to keep out of sight and out of the line of fire. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled to steady his aim, even as debris trickled down around him. He fired, and the man went down, missing most of the back of his head. 

Las-fire whickered across the open air between the two high-rises, while the battle continued to rage below as well. More enemies appeared on the lower floor, supporting their comrades with more fire. The distraction allowed the squads from Third Company to press home their attack. A call went out over the vox.

'First platoon, be advised, check your fire, check your fire, friendlies moving in on the thirtieth floor!'

Argan put two rounds through a wooden desk and then relented, observing from behind a pillar. 'Squad, switch targets, engage upper floor only!' he ordered. Even as he watched, several of the enemy turned away from the window. He could see explosions ripping through the thirtieth floor, and las-fire flashing within. The two squads from Third Platoon pushed through, clearing the room, gunning down the survivors. Several of them gave brief waves or salutes of thanks across the divide before proceeding back to the stairwell to climb up and repeat the process. 

Argan laid down some suppressing fire with the rest of his squad, as they felled several of the enemy. A similar vox message was sent, and they ceased fire, watching on as Third Platoon stormed in. This time a hand-to-hand melee developed, with several guardsmen being bayoneted by the eager thugs of Chaos. They retaliated, going in with the cold steel themselves, finishing off the last of the enemy.

'Building clear!' came the report over the vox. Lieutenant Albrecht ordered all squads to return to ground level, and Argan led his men down. It was easier than climbing up, but by the time they reached the street they were tired out. Albrecht commended his men, and ordered a rest, a brief respite while they waited for another tank to move up from the rear to support them, replacing the one that had been heavily damaged by the missile. Several other companies of infantry moved past them, taking the lead, pushing deeper into the city. Argan found a spot to slump down, resting his back against the wall of the building he had helped clear. Even just a few minutes of rest could do wonders for a man's spirit, as well as his body. 




Lord-General Galen paid continuous close attention to the progress of his troops. The western push was, in contrast to the initial assault, making good progress, while the northern flank was encountering heavy resistance, including from a significant quantity of enemy armour, able to operate in the warehouse yards and storage bays of the northern districts. To the south, the situation was somewhere in between- a lot of resistance, but it was being overcome.  The progress pleased and unnerved him. The enemy had deployed Daemonic troops, but only in one place, and nothing since. Surely they would do so again- but where, and when?

'Arlen?' the Lord-General addressed his Navy counterpart. 'Did the Arch-Magos report any unusual readings either prior to or during the Daemonic incursion?' he asked. Marcos made his way over to the holotable.

'I spoke to the Magos,' Marcos replied. 'Their sensors showed nothing untoward. No indication of the impending incursion other than the usual spike in warp energy readings when the Daemons arrived.'

'No readings, just like the storm...' Galen pondered. 'Do you think the two are linked? I know the Magos said there was no indication of the storm being unnatural, but for that to be followed several days later by the presence of Daemons smacks of deliberate warpcraft. Perhaps there are other sorcerers among the defenders?'

'It is possible,' Marcos answered. 'For certain, it is always possible with such treacherous scum. But there is always the possibility that the incursion was natural, however unlikely that may seem. This planet is strange enough. Maybe the barriers between realspace and the warp are notably thin here.'  

'The coincidence is too great, Arlen,' Galen replied. 'There is no chance those Daemons arrived here through some natural phenomenon. They were summoned, and if they were summoned, who did the summoning?'

'I do not know.' Marcos offered his flask of Amasec to the Lord-General. 'But if they are out there, I have no doubt we shall find out sooner or later.'

'You are correct, of course,' Galen replied. 'But that is precisely what worries me.'




The EAS Starswirl came in low and slow over the Imperial lines, drawing some admiring glances from the guardsmen below thanks to its elegant design and sheer size for something made by such a relatively technologically primitive species. The vast bulk of the bombardment airship loomed overhead, blocking out Celestia's sun. Pegasi dove over the side with the mooring lines at the ready while spotters called out the height and any steering corrections. With the lines secured, the engines were cut, and the Starswirl rested at anchor, the gondola settling gently onto the flat grassy plain. The boarding ramps slipped down, and Princess Celestia disembarked, mane whipped by a strong breeze off of the ocean.

She was met by a row of smart soldiers in various shades of camouflaged combat uniforms, and the rather incongruously bemedaled commander of the siege lines, Major-General Marwan, who, like others before him, struggled with the traditional handshake for a visiting dignitary, having to instead withdraw his hand and offer an awkward half-salute instead.

'Greetings, Your Highness,' Marwan offered warmly. 'My name is Major-General Marwan. It is always a pleasure to show off the hard work of my men. Welcome to the battlefield.' He made an expansive gesture, indicating the siege lines around him, not strictly the battlefield but rather a mile or two behind the former frontline, and now some distance from where the fighting raged inside the city.

'Thank you, General,' Celestia greeted him with a nod in response. 'Your siege works appear most impressive from the air.'

Marwan smiled, an indication perhaps that he considered the compliment directed more to himself than to the hard work of thousands whom he merely oversaw and commanded.

'Indeed, I am sure they do. The Imperium has mastered the art of the siege, both imposing them and defending them, ever since the great Primarch Rogal Dorn held the walls of the sacred Imperial Palace on Holy Terra herself against the dark tide of the traitor legions...' Marwan began, a brief comment becoming a good five-minute compressed history of Imperial siegecraft. He then turned with another gesture to a group of soldiers standing to attention behind him, each wearing a different uniform.

'These men and women are your Honour Guard,' he announced. 'I decreed that one from each siege and infantry regiment that garrison these great works should be chosen, to represent the efforts of their fellows and reward such labours. Major?' He turned again to his adjutant, who stepped forward to read out their names.

'Sir! Your Highness.' The Major made a curt gesture in the direction of each soldier in turn. 'Corporal Hennex, 1st Platonian Siege Regiment. Sapper Arbo, 55th Merdas Siege Regiment. Private Mattias, 15th Hordonite Infantry Regiment. Private Langstrom, 8th Bennetine Rifles.'

The Major stepped back again, and Marwan gave an approving nod. 'All fine regiments, with long and noble histories, Your Highness. They have fought across many worlds and defeated the enemy at every turn. Today shall be no different! Now that you have met the men and women, would you care to see their equipment?' he suggested.

'That would be most enlightening, yes,' Celestia replied. 'Please, show me.' Marwan appeared only too happy to oblige, as he bustled off ahead. 

'Come, come, Your Highness!' he urged, striding out eagerly like a child wanting to show his newest friend his biggest and best toys. Celestia followed along, somewhat bemused, and also somewhat reminded of her own Grand-Admiral Bluewater, still missing at sea, so far as anyone knew.

Marwan proceeded through the curls of razor wire and rear-facing protective trenchline, into the siege works. There was no grass here- everything was bare earth, having been dug up to create sandbagged revetments, communications trenches, earthen berms and firing pits. Men and women bustled everywhere, giving the princess some rather peculiar looks as she wandered through their lines, accompanied by the Major-General and an honour guard with their rifles at the slope. Though the batteries were not firing, there was still much work to be done in strengthening the line in case it was needed. Several artillery units remained on standby, ready to fire immediately if a request was received from a sufficiently high authority. Marwan halted near one such firing piece.

'This is the Earthshaker cannon,' he explained proudly. 'The mainstay of the Imperial artillery forces, it can be mounted on a mobile chassis or employed, as seen here, as a towed system. It is a 132mm gun and can be employed in both direct and indirect-fire modes.'

'Hm, yes, I see.' Celestia nodded. 'Is this your largest weapon? We employ cannons with larger calibres in our artillery units,' she added nonchalantly. Marwan seemed flustered.

'Largest? Oh, no! Not at all. Come, I will show your our Colossus!' He led the way through a connecting trench a considerable distance along the line to another firing pit, this one containing a heavy armoured vehicle, mounting a monstrous cannon and with a rear firing spade dug in to counteract recoil. A stack of sandbags had also been piled behind the vehicle for extra protection.

'This is the Colossus Bombard,' Marwan smiled, seemingly in his element. 'It is the largest siege weapon commonly utilised by most line siege regiments. It is short-ranged, but whenever it fires, something is going to die.'

'And this is what you have been destroying my city with?' Celestia questioned, which made Marwan quickly stammer. 

'Destroy? Oh no, no. I received orders that collateral damage was to be kept to a minimum if possible. You see? The towers of your city are intact.' He pointed to the skyline some fifteen miles away. 'Our artillery has been targeting confirmed enemy positions to create corridors for our assault forces. I must say it seems that we have done a fine job of it, too.'

'I am sure it seems that way from behind the lines,' Celestia replied, casually insulting the rather pompous Major-General in such a way that he couldn't be sure he had actually been insulted. 'I wonder, however, what it seems like at the front?'




Sergeant Argan was on the move again. His squad, and the rest of the company, were pushing up, getting close to the fighting again. Alpha and Beta companies had taken over the lead to give Gamma a chance to rest, and they were now engaged in heavy fighting up ahead. Several theatre buildings had been occupied by the enemy, and controlled the large city square that they fronted onto. A pair of Leman Russ tanks provided support as one of their specialised Demolisher-pattern siblings assaulted the structures directly with its heavy, short-range cannon. The roar of each shot echoed around the city canyons as the shell smashed into the target building, causing great avalanches of brick and concrete to cascade down onto the street, floor joists sagging and interior walls bowing under the pressure. Men inside, those that had not been killed by the blast or overpressure, scrambled to counter the potent weapon. Melta-bombs hurled from within fell considerably short of the tank, which riddled the defenders with heavy bolter fire, blowing several of them apart.

The Demolisher cannon raged again, and the target building, a considerable structure, a six-storey theatre, began to collapse, floors giving way, the roof caving in, burying a hundred Chaos infantry under tons of rubble. A huge cloud of dust rose, obscuring all vision, filling the streets, choking the few survivors. A cheer went up from the Imperials, but the two neighbouring theatre buildings were still occupied by the enemy. A pair of daring or insane men leaped from a ragged shell hole in the frontage of one of the theatres under cover of the thick, rolling dust, and sprinted out toward the last known location of the Demolisher. They found it through the smoke, but one of them found a guardsman, who, in between hacking coughs, managed to raise his lasgun and shoot the man dead. His companion, however, reached the tank, which was backing up cautiously. In each hand he held a powerful melta-charge, and he hurled them bodily onto the tank, one landing on the engine deck and one nestling into the turret ring. He tried to run back to cover, but one of the Demolisher's heavy bolters found him and turned him into a red mist. 

Moments later, his melta-bombs turned the Demolisher into a fountain of flame. The extreme heat from the fusion charges melted straight through the thick armour, turning metal into liquid as it burned white-hot. The engine gave out with a great spray of sparks, and the turret hatch was flung open, at least one crew member trying desperately to get out, but it was far too late, and the heat found the main ammunition magazine. 

Argan, standing a good two hundred yards away, was nearly knocked from his feet by the sudden blast. A mushroom of orange flame rose into the sky, visible even through the dust cloud as it marked the end of the siege tank. Suddenly, where all had been well, confusion reigned. The dust was severely limiting visiblity, filling the square and hanging in the air, cloying, thick. 

Shouted orders were muffled by the dust cloud. What had been a momentary triumph for the guardsmen soon became a potential disaster. What was not muffled was the sudden warcry, a loud, bestial howl, from a hundred, two hundred, three hundred throats. Nobody knew, nobody could see, what was going on, but they could guess.

Argan rallied his squad. Just ahead of them was one of the two standard-pattern Leman Russ tanks, and he headed for it, taking up positions behind a string of concrete planters that held bright, colourful flowers, now covered in dull grey dust. The rest of first platoon joined them, guns aimed.

The cry sounded again, echoing around the square. And then, from the dust, they came.

Taking advantage of the confusion, the Chaos infantry were charging out from the remaining buildings, a headlong rush towards the Parvian Lancers. Some were ready for them, and some were not. Several guardsmen were killed immediately, dazed by the detonation of the Demolisher. Others had organised into squads or platoons, and offered resistance, lasguns flashing and slicing down the onrushing attackers. 

Argan aimed and fired, bringing down one man armed with some kind of meat cleaver. But there were others, dozens of them, coming at him out of the smoke. The rest of the platoon engaged with heavy fire, but some return fire struck several guardsmen. Not all the enemy were outfitted with melee weapons, far from it. Most carried their lasguns with bayonet equipped, not the straight silver of the guardsmen, but nasty, twisted, barbed protuberances, serrated and hooked edges ready to not only stab, but to rip, to tear, to inflict grievous wounds, not because it was necessary, but simply because they wanted to.

Their only intention was to kill, and Argan's only intention was to live. He switched targets rapidly, bringing down two men, as his platoon accounted for plenty more. But they were not just coming from the front. A cry went up of enemies to the left, enemies behind. The Leman Russ began to reverse as it poured fire into the smoke, but a similar fate befell it to its more specialised counterpart. Melta-bombs were affixed to its flank, and they burned through, disabling it. Another one was lofted onto the turret, and it achieved the desired effect. Argan ordered his squad back, just in time to avoid certain death, but not enough to spare them from the effects. The tank erupted in flame as the magazine went up. Argan was lifted bodily from his feet, slammed into something, and saw only blackness.