//------------------------------// // Siege Mentality // Story: Strange Bedfellows // by BRBrony9 //------------------------------// The siege continued for the next three days, guns hammering away at key targets, but mindful of Celestia's request to avoid too much collateral damage, Lord-General Galen had found himself instructing his gunners to only target definitively known enemy positions, against his better judgement. Much of the city was spared the bombardment, as the buildings were too densely packed together to positively identify specific targets. As the guns continued to roar, the assault force was drawn up and prepared, both from those units already in place and from others being moved in from the main landing ground to the west of the continent. Entire regiments were drawn in and encamped on the plains, preparing for the upcoming battle when they would have to storm Manehattan. Even with the artillery preparation, such an attack would doubtless inflict heavy casualties on the attacking force. Urban warfare always did. Once they entered the city, every advantage was with the defenders. They knew the layout, knew the streets and buildings they had been assigned to protect. Rubbled blocked roads. Narrow streets and tall buildings made for a valley of death for armour. Air support had limited effect in such confused and tight combat, likewise artillery, as the chance of hitting friendlies was high. Urban battles became less about regiments and companies than about squads and fireteams. Each unit, sometimes each man, could find themselves isolated as combat went floor by floor, room by room. The Lord-General wanted to surprise the enemy, who would, given the Imperial preparations and guns, likely be expecting a considerably longer siege before any assault. With just the four days' preparatory bombardment, followed by a lightning attack, Galen hoped to catch them off guard and get his troops deep into the city before any significant resistance could be organised. From orbit, he watched as the symbols representing his units moved into position on the holotable. Navy fighters and bombers stood by to launch both from the ground and from orbit, for a quick strike just as the attack went in but after the bobmardment ceased, hopefully to catch in the open enemies rushing from their shelters to their positions. New arrivals also watched the preparations from above. The pony airships Starswirl, and Las Pegasus hung above the rear of the Imperial positions, with Princess Celestia and her sister aboard. While they had witnessed the humans fight, they had yet to see the full might of the Imperium unleashed upon the battlefield all at once. As if an invisible clock had run out, all the heavy guns ceased fire at the same moment. Silence reigned across the plains, across the city, but only for a few moments. Then the roar of a thousand engines filled the air, rows of tanks and Chimera personnel carriers revving up.The attack was to come from the north, west, and south at the same time, and at the signal, the armies marched. A hundred thousand men went to war, a combined, three-pronged effort, closing in on the city. Dust clouds rose behind the advancing vehicles, the armoured spearhead followed by trucks and finally those infantry not lucky enough to be part of a mechanised or motorised regiment. As the first Imperial forces closed to within a couple of miles of the city outskirts, every cannon, every gun and every mortar in the siege lines fired in unison, hurling hundreds of tons of metal in one final swansong before the infantry and tanks got to work, smashing enemy defences and killing men in their dozens. Marauder bombers swooped from the sky, carpet-bombing the outermost known enemy defence line. The tanks halted just outside the city, here and there individual vehicles exchanging fire with surviving enemy bunkers and trenches as the infantry advanced behind. Chimeras came to a stop to disgorge their passengers, who moved swiftly into contact with the defenders, eager to get to grips with the Archenemy at last. Many of them were fresh from the transports in orbit, having avoided the fighting thus far. Others were veterans of the Kuda Prime campaign, having fought at Canterlot or Griffonstone. Sergeant Argan gripped the metal handrail above his seat aboard the Chimera's passenger compartment. 'Thirty seconds!' the driver shouted, and Argan turned to address his men. 'Alright, listen up, squad! Once that ramp goes down, you get the hell off this thing ASAP and find some cover. It could be a madhouse out there, so keep your eyes on a swivel and your heads low. Clear?' A chorus of affirmative responses greeted him, and he nodded. He triple-checked his lasgun. Another combat situation on this strange planet, but this time they were fighting for a city that would look at home, at least from some miles out, on any Imperial 'civilised' world. It looked like a real city, not like a fairytale castle in the mountains like Canterlot, not like some frontier village like Griffonstone. Buildings of metal, of glass, of ferrocrete. Elevated mass transit lines, manufactories. Compared to an equivalent Imperial city it was small, but it was similar. From a distance, the only visible indication of its alien nature was that the large statue in the harbour depicted a horse-alien and not a human. 'Go, go, go!' the driver urged, the ramp clanging down, slamming into the damp earth. Argan took the lead, charging down it, lasgun at the ready. He looked left, and right. Other Chimeras were unloading their cargo all around, hundreds of infantrymen ducking behind fences, lying prone in ditches, huddling behind outbuildings. The western flank of the city was facing them as they arrived at the urban-rural fringe, where the city ended rather abruptly. Behind him was all fields and rolling grasslands, while ahead was construction, modernity, technology. But, it seemed, no enemy. Argan crouched low behind a brick wall, joined by his squad. Their Chimera backed away, multilaser turret scanning for targets but finding none. Argan performed the same function, with the same result. Peering round the corner of the wall, he could see the road ahead, straight as an arrow, leading from the fields into the city. The small buildings, houses that lined both sides of the street, were just ruins, shattered by the bombardment, smoke still curling and rising gently from several spots. A large crater from an inconveniently precise Imperial shell blocked the road to vehicles. There was an overturned wooden cart, a large amount of wooden debris and shattered planks, a fallen tree, and that was all. A signal from Lieutenant Albrecht, the platoon leader, ordered the squads to advance along both sides of the street. Argan pushed his men forward, climbing over the wall, staying clear of the road itself as it could be booby trapped, mined or covered in crossfire from ambush positions. He followed along, stepping over splintered wood as he crossed the remains of a house, knocked flat by a shell. There was nothing around, no bodies, no blood. The squad spread out, moving through the garden and the rear yard. Other squads were advancing around them, both from their platoon and others. Valkyrie gunships hovered overhead. Still nothing. Argan felt a sense of unease. Something wasn't right, couldn't be right. The briefing estimated fifty thousand enemy troops, and in a city the size of Manehattan, surely some of them had to be guarding the outskirts? If not, then there must be some reason for that. The squad moved up through the garden of another house, its interior laid bare by a shell that had stripped the roof and rear wall away. Photographs of the inhabitants, or rather former inhabitants, lay scattered about, three of the horse-aliens, a green one with wings, a blue one with a horn, and a smaller yellow one, also with a horn. Argan ordered one fireteam to sweep the building, which turned up nothing. Where were the enemy? A trio of Lightning fighters roared by overhead, momentarily startling him. But they were friendly, and so far, so was the city. Where were the enemy? 'Forest Gamma 1-2, Forest Gamma 1. Crossroads ahead, Take your squad across and secure that corner building.' The Sergeant of Second Squad acknowledged. The vox crackled again. 'Forest Gamma 1-1, base of fire on the crossroads.' Argan took the handset proferred by Merkev. 'Forest Gamma 1-1, copy that.' A few swift hand gestures directed his men to take positions in the windows and behind the fence of the building that overlooked the junction. Argan took a look out of one of the windows himself. The crossroads of a dirt track crossing the concrete strip they had been following, the junction held a large three-storey building diagonally opposite from him, perhaps a store or some kind of administrative facility. The lot directly across was just empty land. Argan could still see no signs of the enemy. His squad scanned for targets as second squad began their advance, one fireteam finding covering positions as the other advanced to the next position, then swapping roles, keeping up a bounding overwatch as they crossed the street. They reached the other side without incident, stacking up on the building's main entrance. One man kicked it in, and one by one the squad disappeared inside. There was silence for a minute or so. 'Forest Gamma 1-2, building is clear, I say again, building clear.' They were having an easy run, too easy. There must be mines somewhere, perhaps an entire section of the street rigged to blow. Things were never this simple, not in war, not against the Archenemy. Albrecht ordered the platoon to cross the street. Argan headed outside with his squad. Farther down the dirt track they were crossing, he could see other units moving forward, some supported by tanks. Argan had no idea how the other flanks were faring, if perhaps the north and south forces were running into an absolute meat grinder and being churned up and spat out. Or perhaps they were merely strolling through the leafy suburbs, just as the 40th Parvian Lancers were? Another city block was cleared. No contact. Another street was crossed. No contact. 'Contact! Contact!' someone screamed. A hundred guns swung round, looking, searching for a target. A very sheepish response came over the vox. 'Negative contact. Just, uh...just some washing, flapping in the wind...' Argan mentally cursed the raw recruit who had made the mistake, though it was understandable. Senses were heightened and nerves were fraught, more and more so the longer they went with no sign of the enemy. He moved on, up the stree, to the next junction. 'CONTACT!' The fevered shout went up again, this time echoed by a dozen other voices, as every man could see it, and this time there was no doubt. Up ahead, emerging seemingly from every possible doorway, cellar and drainage ditch, came the denizens of hell. Lurching, sprinting, pouring across the ground, quadruped creatures, baying and howling with bloodlust, eyes aglow from the warp. Lesser Daemons, the foul and blasphemous conjurations of Chaos, charging at their foe. Lasfire met them head-on, punching holes in their bony plates and bare flesh. Several fell, dissolving in pools of warp matter, but there were hundreds, thousands, not slowing. The Imperial infantry backed up, some lesser men simply turning and fleeing, braving the guns of their Commissars rather than face the spawn of the devil. A sudden, acrid tang filled Argan's nostrils. The smell of the warp, the smell of fear. 'Squad! Fall back!' he ordered, not waiting for commands from Albrecht, though they soon followed. They had no choice- they had to run, or they would be overrun by a tide of Daemons in moments. Back, back through the streets. A few squads of infantry could never stand against such an enemy. They had to flee, back to the outskirts, back to the edge of the city, back to where their tanks and carriers waited. Argan sprinted, jumping over fences and ducking under broken door frames. His squad were with him, and behind him came death. Panicked vox messages could be heard, broadcast over Merkev's backpack set. Men called for aid, screamed for artillery, not to kill the enemy, but to kill them before the Daemons could claim their souls. The gunners were reluctant to fire on their own men, but orders rapidly came down from both the newly promoted Colonel Harding, regimental commander of the 40th Lancers, and Lord-General Galen himself, and the cannons sprung into action, hurtling shells at the target area. A general retreat was called for the western sector, as any unit remaining inside the city risked being cut off, surrounded and slaughtered. Falling back to the tanks and their heavy guns was deemed to be the only prudent course of action. There were simply too many of the foul creature to engage in an urban setting. Only Astartes had any chance of prevailing against such numbers in such a fight, where Daemons could leap from every window, every doorway, every possible angle, their sharp teeth capable of ripping a man's flesh from his bones, their strength unmatched except perhaps by a few of the mutated Ogryn, the subhuman superhumans who possessed superior physique, but inferior intellect. Sergeant Argan risked a glance over his shoulder. Some more foolish guardsmen were disobeying the retreat order, or were perhaps unaware of it, and were making a stand, forming a firing line behind a wooden fence. Argan watched for longer than he should have, and saw them cut down, one by one, as the Daemons leaped over the fence, only losing one of their number in the process. The forces of the warp were not to be trifled with, certainly not by a man in possession of nothing more than faith and a flak vest. Ahead, he could see the tanks, a blessed sight indeed. He counted a dozen in his vision, along with a similar number of Chimeras. They were keeping a short distance away from the edge of the city, so as to give them a field of fire when the enemy arrived. Argan pushed hard, his lungs burning, legs cramping as he worked them hard, hurdling the brick wall he had climbed over at the start of the abortive assault. Another glance showed that his squad were all with him. Drawing level with the tanks, he ordered a half, and defensive positions to be taken. There was no cover, but the Daemons had no ranged weapons, preferring only the animalistic physicality of close combat, of blood and sinew. Argan crouched behind a slight hillock in the grass, his lasgun aimed. His squad did the same beside him. He could hear some of the tanks beginning to open fire, their heavy bolters chattering, ideal weapons for combating a massed assault. Multilasers hissed and cracked as the Chimeras joined in. The Leman Russ next to him fired its main cannon with a deafening roar, a canister round, spraying thousands of ball bearings across the street ahead, shredding several dozen of the enemy creatures. One of the Daemons appeared in his eyeline, jumping over the brick wall he had cleared moments earlier. He took aim and fired, striking it in what passed for a face. It barely flinched, but another dozen rifles opened up and cut it down. A screaming overhead made him glance up. He saw nothing, but an explosion and a rising cloud of smoke ahead showed the impact point of the shell that had raced in. There was another, and another, and another. A bombardment began, fire coming in from all angles, pounding the Daemonic horde. The tanks blazed away, their multitude of weaponry effective against the enemy. Valkyries hovered above, adding pinpoint bursts of autocannon fire and the occasional rocket where targets presented themselves. The Imperium may have lacked in finesse or in the dark arts of warpcraft, but they more than made up for it in sheer firepower. Shells, rockets, las-rounds, bullets, missiles, bombs, plasma bolts and flame met the advancing horde as they tried to move beyond the realms of the city and into the grasslands, fixated on their targets, trying only to reach the infantry that had retreated from their grasp. On the plains, in the open, they were cut down in their thousands by the massed fire of the human guns. A simplistic and brutal enemy, the lesser Daemons were butchered with an equal lack of remorse by the Imperial troops, having lost some of their number to the sudden attack, and many billions to similar foes in the past. Sergeant Argan lost count of how many of the enemy he had seen destroyed. He had lost count of how many he had shot. All he could do was aim and fire, aim and fire, again and again, as the seemingly endless tide of Daemons continued to pour mindlessly out of the city. Even the Tyranids would cut their losses at this point, he mused. Torrents of firepower lashed the ground ahead, demolishing what little remained in the way of buildings and infrastructure in the outer city district. Every weapon in the Imperial arsenal, from the smallest sidearm to the largest cannon, was in play, the only exception being orbital weaponry, as the risk of friendly fire was too high, and the level of Daemonic incursion not sufficient to warrant more severe responses. Eventually, overwhelming firepower won the day, and the tide of Daemons began to slacken, weaken, slow and finally stop altogether. The Imperial troops took stock. They had taken losses, of course, with a thousand men dead, perhaps more. But they had halted the flow. The question was, if they pushed back into the city, would the Daemons come again? Lord-General Galen held discussions with his advisors and with the Lord-Admiral. Troops in the north and south had been making good progress, against actual human opposition, but had been ordered to halt once the presence of the Daemonic became apparent. The nature of the warp was fickle and inherently dangerous, even when not being directed intentionally by maleficent actors. The representatives of the Ecclesiarchy urged caution, and the sanctifying of the tainted ground as soon as practically possible. Galen agreed, but such concerns were for later. Right now, the battle still had to be fought, and won. The dangers of further Daemon incursions gave more impetus to the need to take the city and kill or destroy who or whatever was responsible for the opening of the warp rift through which the Daemons had, presumably, been able to pour. Marcos agreed, and informed Galen that the fleet stood ready to assist, and that he personally would order an orbital strike if conditions on the ground warranted it. Only if the situation became extreme, however, as the Lord-Admiral, through no intention or desire of his own, had developed a strange respect for the Xenos Princess and her wishes. She did not wish the city damaged more than necessary- he did not want to damage it more than necessary. She had asked the same of Canterlot- he had agreed, as had the Lord-General. It still perturbed him that he could not determine if he was being directly manipulated by Celestia or not. Was she somehow psychically persuading him? Or was it perhaps an effect unleashed by the Archenemy? Or was he just paranoid after decades of loyal service behind perilously thin Gellar fields, and several years out here on the fringes of the galaxy? He did not know, but he had urged Galen to show restraint if at all possible. To his surprise, his good friend had agreed without any qualms or apparent reservations. It had been known in the past for a Daemonic incursion of any size, no matter how small, to be grounds for Exterminatus, the deliberate destruction of a planet's biosphere through a bombardment of virus bombs or cyclonic torpedoes. Most would decree such measures to be extreme, as the appearance had been very localised and seemingly dealt with, though the possibility remained of further encounters. Evidently the Chaos forces defending Manehattan included at least one psyker with the capability of opening a warp rift. An hour's halt was ordered, in case any more Daemons should emerge and attack. Nothing happened, however, and a second advance was considered. Galen ordered the north and south forces to resume their pushes toward the city centre, while the western flank held position. Tens of thousands of men were on the move, advancing into the urban jungle, meeting resistance, but only from men. Everything seemed stable. The western flank was ordered to make exploratory pushes into the outskirts, moving by companies to see if anything would come at them. They made inroads, and encountered nothing. Not human, not Daemon, nothing. A full-scale advance was ordered once more, and the whole western force began to move, back into the city, passing the bodies of their dead. They reached the same point where the Daemons had been sighted. Nothing. The advance was ordered to continue, and the men complied, moving deeper and deeper into the city. The other two flanks were pushing in also, heading towards the centre, with the hopes and intentions of linking up and unifying all three fronts. But nothing was ever that simple. Sergeant Argan, moving forward again as part of the renewed thrust, was impressed by some of the buildings he was seeing around him. No longer in the land of the simple one or two-storey family dwelling, his squad was surrounded by towering structures, great edifices of steel and glass. They were as nothing compared to an Imperial Hive city, but Argan had to admit he was impressed by the horse-aliens' abilities in construction. It was as if he were at the base of a canyon, gazing up at the rock walls and, at the very top, daylight. This was the business district, perhaps, the financial centre of the city, where the rich and the nobility congregated and, if it was anything like an equivalent Imperial city, where they conspired to defraud and rob and steal from the hard-working common man. The streets were deserted, though littered with a few scattered wagons and carts, some gaily painted. Argan moved cautiously, fully aware that a las-bolt or a bullet could come from nowhere and claim his life at any time. The enemy could be anywhere, behind any window, in any doorway, at any corner. All he could do was be careful. Princess Celestia peered through the monoculars provided to her by the spotter team aboard the Starswirl. She had witnessed the initial advance, the confused retreat, the determined stand and finally the renewed thrust into the city, and she had seen enough. If she had suffered from any doubts before, she was under no illusions anymore- the humans were brave, sometimes foolishly so. The same, she had to admit, could be said of her own ponies, especially the devout and infinitely loyal Royal Guard. If there was any glory in war, it rested on ponies like they, and on men like the ones she had seen charging into the unknown. The scale of warfare unleashed before her eyes was unknown to ponykind, but Celestia was not afraid, not fearful. She knew that such violence was the logical consequence of technology. The more advanced it became, the more fatal it would be. Even the most oblivious pony would have witnessed evidence of it among Equestrian society. Repeating rifles, heavy field artillery, combat airships, armoured trains- all of the advances of pony society had resulted in death. But it was a necessary evil, and, as shown by the firepower of these humans, it was an evil that had come too late and too slowly to Equestria. 'Your Highness?' Lieutenant Atter spoke up, still serving as the spotter aboard the Starswirl with Mons. 'I have a message from Lord-General Galen. He suggests you might wish to tour one of our artillery positions, as a demonstration of good faith and to observe the capabilities of our siege weaponry.' Celestia cocked her head and pondered for a moment. 'Very well. Such a tour would be of interest to me. Your artillery is clearly powerful. Arrange for it, would you?' 'Yes, Your Highness, at once!' Atter replied, addressing her as if she were a high-ranking Ecclesiarch or a member of the Inquisition, someone to be feared and respected in equal measure. He spoke into his vox-set, and the Starswirl was cleared for an approach. Celestia, it was hoped, would soon see the true might of Imperial firepower up close.