//------------------------------// // The Struggle // Story: Strange Bedfellows // by BRBrony9 //------------------------------// The situation was confused, to say the least. Lord-Admiral Marcos knew that the enemy was aboard his ship, somewhere down below. He knew there were multiple points of entry; Auspex readings, as well as visual confirmation from other ships, indicated at least two dozen different assault boats, as well as approximately fifty of the smaller boarding torpedoes, attached to the hull of the Emperor's Judgement. While a significant number of men could be put aboard by that many vessels, compared to the crew of the battleship they were but a pinprick, but they were a pinprick that could do damage, and more were on the way. The Auspex had picked up a second wave, a mixture of assault craft, boarding torpedoes, and even some larger shuttles, perhaps hoping that the first wave would have been able to secure a docking bay. Marcos had other targets to strike as well. The enemy fleet was still out there, and still fighting hard, despite the initial successes of the Imperial counter-thrust which had caught them off guard. The battle situation had reversed, with the Imperial fleet now occupying the space that the Chaos fleet had occupied upon coming around the planet, and vice versa. They were still within weapons range of each other, but now the surprise gained by the Imperial maneuvers had worn out. Their fleet had moved, tried its best to catch the enemy napping, and succeeded, but only partially. Now it was once more a straight fight between the two sides, and despite taking some heavy damage, the Chaos forces still outnumbered and outgunned the Imperial fleet. Marcos's plan had been effective, but not effective enough, and now they faced the same problem as before; the potential for annihilation by the enemy's massed guns. To add to the problems, the enemy was now between them and the fleeing transports, a calculated risk and one that had to be taken, but now representing a problem. If the enemy went after the transports, all the Imperial fleet could do was try to stop them with massed firepower. They would be unlikely to be able to overtake the enemy, and if they tried to do so it would likely result in their destruction. To simply sit and take the enemy fire instead of making the tactical maneuver that they had would have led to the Imperial ships taking a massive pounding right at the start of the battle, and probably ending any hope of victory, however slim that hope might be. Their move had allowed them to inflict damage to almost every enemy ship, not enough to destroy or disable them, but hopefully enough to degrade their combat capability to such an extent that the limited forces at Marcos's disposal would be enough to achieve victory. The lances of the two capital ships continued to fire every few seconds, aiming at vulnerable areas of the enemy vessels, or weak points in their void shields exposed during the tactical maneuvering. they were doing what they could, but it would, probably, not be enough. Marcos ordered the fighter screens to switch their whole focus onto protecting the Emperor's judgement from the incoming second wave of enemy boarding craft, while the battleship continued to thrust into a higher orbit along with the rest of the fleet. They needed to be in a position where they could cut their losses if needs be, and make a break for deep space, catching up with the transports and either making a stand, regrouping, or leaving the system entirely. Marcos was loathe to make any of those choices, but he knew that they would have to be strongly considered. Already reports were coming in from various ships of damage taken.; systems offline, casualty reports, weapons knocked out of action. The Chaos ships were turning and bringing their broadsides to bear now, adding considerable firepower to their assault. If Marcos were unlucky, he might lose his entire fleet with little done in reply. Yet the idea of abandoning the planet was anathema to him now, not just because of the men they would leave behind and condemn to the worst excesses of Chaos control, but because they would be doing the same thing to the ponies. He had made a promise to the Princess, and he did not intend to break it. But he was not charged with the protection of Xenos, however powerful and persuasive they might be. He was charged with carrying out the will of the Emperor. As an Admiral in His Imperial Navy, Marcos had but one duty, and that was to achieve victory for the Imperium and for the Emperor at whatever cost. if the fleet had to die for that, then it would die, but throwing away his ships and his men needlessly was not what Marcos had in mind. It was decided, then. The Princess could look after herself. Perhaps she could look after her people as well. That was not Marcos's duty, however much it seemed like it was in his increasingly confused mind. He had to protect the fleet. If he had to, he would fall back, no ifs, no buts, no hesitation. If he had to abandon the planet, then he would. Senior Armsman Marcallas and his squad were waiting, again. The enemy would be coming, surely, at any moment, and the tension once more was palpable. He could cut it with a knife, though his knife was far more likely to be used to cut someone's throat. Despite being used as a club, his autogun was still working, fine testament to the robustness of such weapons. The same could be said of the lasgun, the infantryman's best friend, which kept on working through the harshest conditions that might be encountered on any planet across the galaxy. Just like the men who wielded them, the lasgun and autogun were stalwart and strong. Naturally, they were used just as much by the forces of the Archenemy, for much the same reason. The armsmen and crewmen had pulled back into the next section, which was a long and fairly narrow corridor, linking to a maze of passageways. Men had been posted at every corner, crouching behind makeshift barricades that had been hastily thrown up from any detritus or loose fittings that could be located. The ship had not been designed with internal defence particularly high on the list of priorities, as it was not supposed to come to that point. The point defences, main weapons and the fighter compliment of the Emperor's Judgement were meant to keep an enemy at bay, in conjunction with the escort vessels. There were natural chokepoints aboard as a consequence of the ship's layout, but there were very few actual defensive positions as such. On some decks and near key sections, automated turrets were deployed, only activated during an uprising, mutiny or boarding action, as was the case with the ship's compliment of weapons servitors, bio-augmented and mostly mindless human-machine hybrids with limbs replaced by powerful weaponry. None were assigned to this sector, however, and in any case would be stretched thin by the numerous enemy landing sites which were spread across many decks, both above and below Deck 28. Deck 28 itself was relatively unimportant, holding just a few weapons batteries, a small docking bay over on the starboard side, and plenty of bunk rooms and stores. That was why they had no weapons servitors; it would scarcely matter to the operation of the ship as a whole if the enemy were to seize the deck, even if they took all of it. They could be contained there and eventually flushed out, and they would be unable to do any serious damage in the meantime. That, certainly, was the theory. If boarded, each deck would be turned into its own fortress, with all doors and elevators to other decks closed and secured, guarded constantly. No passage between decks would be permitted except for emergency evacuation if the enemy had boarded one particular location, trapping them on whichever deck they had made their landing on. None of that was very pleasing to the men and women of Deck 28. They were on the unexpected frontline of a sudden struggle. Where they had mere minutes earlier been manning their damage control stations and emergency posts, ready to react to a decompression or an explosion aboard, to treat casualties from enemy fire, now they were being thrust straight into the action, for which none of them were overly well trained. The armsmen received training in using their weapons and in combating both mutinies and boarding actions, but there was only so much that could be drilled into them with regards to how to act in such a situation. The possibility of being boarded on such a large ship was meant to be remote, something akin to the drill on how to use the emergency lifeboats and escape capsules. Probably it would never come down to that, either because a crew would have an uneventful tour of duty or the ship would be destroyed outright without any possibility of escaping the disaster. Being boarded was a distant thought to most crewmen, something that was meant to be, to all practical intent, impossible. Yet it was happening, and men and women had died already as a result. Marcallas and the rest of his squad did not know what was happening on other decks. Had the enemy already reached the bridge and taken control? Surely not. The heavy guns were still firing, shaking the deck and the whole structure of the craft, unmistakable as anything else to those with ears used to innumerable practice firings in outer star systems, used to train both the gun crews and the Auspex targeting crews up on the bridge in cooperation and accuracy. If the enemy had taken the bridge then the targeting systems would surely have been shut down, depriving the gunnery crews of anything to aim at except distant dots of light. Even though the two fleets were close together in cosmic terms, they were still, at a minimum, hundreds of miles apart, impossible for any man on board to see to perform manual targeting. The ship was still in friendly hands, then, but the same could not be said of parts of Deck 28. The enemy held at least one section of it, and were sure to push on and try to take the rest. The bulkhead door was a fair distance in front of them, appearing surprisingly menacing in the dim light, like a portal to hell. The red emergency lighting had replaced the normal, sterile white lights that illuminated the lower decks. For most of the men, it had been months, if not years, since they had seen any real daylight, and while the output of the illuminator strips and glow-globes had been deliberately configured to try and replicate the beneficial qualities of solar output, it could only go so far, meaning most Navy enlisted personnel had a pale and pasty appearance to their skin. Marcallas had done his best to mollify his squad's fears. They had taken a casualty, Armswoman Djanik, and that had affected them all deeply. Despite the various engagements they ship had been through, none of the squad had ever suffered more than a small scratch or bruise as a result. To lose one of their own and witness her doom was not an experience any of them had been prepared for, though most had seen other crewmen die during battle. It was different when it was a squadmate, a close friend rather than a stranger or a casual acquaintance from another department or section. The universe was a cold an unfeeling place, but that did not mean that the men and women who inhabited it had to be. With a bang, the door flew open, separated from its hinges, the hermetic seal well and truly broken by an explosive charge planted on the other side of the bulkhead. Immediately, grenades rained through the opening, bouncing and detonating well ahead of the defences that had been set up. Moments later, men began to storm through. Marcallas gave a rallying cry to his squad, and leveled his autogun, opening fire. Other guns around him fired in unison, including the stubber which had been successfully evacuated from the other compartment. Howls of anger rose from the lungs of a host of Chaos troopers, who stormed forward, heedless of the storm of lead that met them. As they closed the range, shotgun blasts rang out, adding to the cacophony and the carnage. Many men went down, struck mortal blows, but dozens of others continued on, lasguns and autoguns blazing. Several armsmen fell to their ragged fire, casualties that were not ideal. There was only a relatively thin line of men and women protecting the opening, and the crews were not exactly eager to give up any ground to the enemy. If they could hold the corridor, then they would most certainly do so. They wanted to. They had to. The Chaos infantry charged onward, into the bullets and buckshot, losing many of their number. But more continued pouring through the opening in the bulkhead, a never-ending stream of men. The Chaos troops from the assault boat that had faced Marcallas and his men had been dealt with, but there were others, many others, who had now joined together in one large band, several hundred strong, it seemed, to charge the barricades. Marcallas quickly had to reload, his magazine empty after hosing down the enemy with bullets. He slammed home a fresh clip and took aim again. It was easier to hit than to miss in the confined space of the companionway, and it quickly became a slaughterhouse, the deck plating coated in blood and fallen bodies. Losses did not deter the enemy, driven on by hatred of the Imperium and everything it stood for. They closed the distance with startling rapidity, bringing them once more into close combat range with the defenders, and the fighting again devolved into an orgy of violence. Chaos infantry leaped over the barricades, heedless of the danger. Shotguns accounted for several of the more eager men, but then could not be used as the enemy was in among the armsmen. The risk of friendly fire was far too great. A stray shotgun blast could fell several enemies- or several comrades. The stubber, set up just behind the front line of crates and other obstacles, found itself being quickly overrun by the enemy, its operator forced to fall back, the loader cut down when he tried to make a stand. One particularly brawny Chaos soldier tore the gun from its pintle mount, intent on turning it upon its rightful owners. With the ammunition belt dangling down beside him, he spun the weapon around and took aim, not even bothering to rest it upon the barricade for accuracy, merely bracing himself against the recoil as he opened fire. He managed to gun down three unfortunate armsmen before autogun fire took him out, the gun clattering to the deck as he collapsed backward over the barricade in a most unathletic fashion. The loss of the stubber meant the first line was untenable. The enemy was among them, and those farther back could not fire into the melee for fear of hitting their own men. There had been too many enemies for their firepower to stop before they covered the distance to the barricades. More men were still coming through the breach where the bulkhead door had been, charging forward to join the fray and support their fellows. Marcallas and his squad held fire, not daring to shoot lest they hit the other armsmen who were now fighting for their lives in hand-to-hand combat. They could move up and support, join in with their fists and knives, but the enemy outnumbered them and they would not be enough to tip the balance in favour of the Imperials. Far better to hang back and wait for enemies to present themselves as targets. That was what the other squads were doing. The ensign had not given them an order to do otherwise, and so Marcallas stayed put, autogun aimed, hoping for a target. The men who had been manning the first line of barricades were falling under the blows of the enemy, attacking with bayonets and axes. Blood spattered the walls of the narrow corridor as men went down screaming, hacked or bludgeoned to death. As they fell, more enemies became viable targets for the armsmen manning the second line of barricades, and they opened fire wherever they could get a bead on an enemy, killing several. The final few surviving armsmen in the front line tried to flee, but only one managed to escape, the others being shot from behind. As soon as the running armsman made it safely to the second line, they opened fire en masse, dropping half a dozen of the snarling Chaos infantry as they turned their attentions to the next line of defenders. The enemy had a much shorter distance to cover to reach the second line than they had to reach the first, and once again they charged. There was little else they could do, in reality. The compaionway was too narrow for any tactical maneuvers, and there was essentially no cover for the majority of Chaos infantry. A few could crouch behind the makeshift barricades, but the rest would be vulnerable, able to be picked off one by one by the armsmen if they stopped to try and trade fire with the defenders. Their only recourse was to charge, and that was something that the forces of Chaos loved to do, regardless of whether they followed the Blood God Khorne or any of the other Dark Powers. Marcallas fired again, picking off two axemen as they tried to close the range. Shotguns roared around him as other armsmen blazed away, but again the enemy were quick. Several men almost made it to the barricades before going down sprawling. Scattered las-fire killed two armsmen, and the ensign blew her whistle. The signal to fall back. 'First section, fall back, second section, covering fire!' Marcallas ordered his squad, and they jumped into action. Four men remained in place along with Marcallas, firing at the enemy, while the remainder of the squad left cover and retreated down the passageway. The rest of the defenders at the second line were doing the same, a bounding retreat with each section covering the other as they pulled back, and then swapping roles, hoping to suppress and pin down the enemy while the retreat was underway to safer positions. Marcallas ducked out and ran, slipping into cover behind a large piece of spare deck plating being used as a barricade. The rest of his squad made it to safety, but several of the armsmen went down as the enemy began to open fire on them. The third line of barricades was no safer or easier to defend than the first or second lines had been, and once more the enemy charged. They were fought for less than a minute before the ensign ordered another retreat, whittling down the strength of the boarding party, though they seemed to be getting almost constant reinforcements from behind as more men joined the struggle from other assault boats and boarding torpedoes. Neither Marcallas nor the ensign had any idea how many more men there might be coming through from the other section, but with the almost limitless extent of the ship to cover, it was sensible to lure them in and let them overstretch themselves while taking casualties all the while. It was far easier for the defenders to replenish any losses than it would be for the boarding party, who would have to link up with other units already aboard or wait for another wave to arrive from across the void. The ensign was playing a shrewd game, despite her youth. Again she gave the order to fall back before the enemy could reach them, and back they went, around the corner where the companionway turned. Men were already waiting there, and they were pulled back as well. They were heading, ultimately, for the deck armoury, which lay a short distance farther along the ship. They made several more stops to try and hold the enemy back, but each time they were ordered to retreat, back to safer positions. Each time, however, they inflicted more casualties on the enemy as they charged forward, wearing them down. The deck armoury was partly designed as a fallback position should the deck be overrun. Every deck hda at least one; some had half a dozen or more at strategic locations. Deck 28 possessed just a single example, as there was little of note to protect anywhere along its length. The armouries were constructed to be a fortified position, often at the centre of the deck in relation to the ship's length, where armsmen and officers could hole up in event of a boarding action, taking up defensive positions both to protect themselves, and to protect the armoury, which contained small arms, ammunition, and the few heavy weapons permitted on board, mostly stubbers and heavy bolters, though some meltaguns were also provided, as well as ordnance such as breaching charges and plasma grenades, in case the ship was boarded by something that regular small arms simply could not kill, such as traitor Astartes or some of the larger Tyranid beasts. Eventually, after seemingly hours in the twisting compaionways, though more likely less than fifteen minutes since the assault had begun, Marcallas and his squad reached the armoury. It was a hexagonal structure that rose from the deck at the centre of a large chamber, empty apart from the armoury itself, with a considerably higher ceiling than the small compaionways, showing the true height of each deck aboard a battleship. The armoury bore some similarities with an Adeptus Arbites precinct house; the exterior was studded with stablights and a few turret-mounted stubbers. Metal shutters covered the windows, and twisting metal staircases led up to the entrance, lined with thick plasteel for use as cover. This was where deck 28's combat servitors had been assigned; there were two of them, and each was almost as big as a Space Marine in full armour. A deadly mixture of man and machine, half organic and half mechanical, the two servitors had heavy armour plating where their chests and torsos should have been, protecting them against most small arms fire. Their legs were now a series of servo-motors and pistons, driving them forward, if the situation warranted it, much faster than any normal man could run. At least one eye, and both eyes on one model, had been replaced with optical trackers and targeting systems, while in place of their right arms, each servitor carried a heavy weapons mount that sprouted from their shoulder. One possessed a six-barreled assault cannon, while the other held a double-barreled heavy flamer. Both weapons were fed from the backs of each servitor, where a large fuel tank was mounted to provide for the flamer, and a large backpack-type device containing thousands of rounds of ammunition for the assault cannon. Marcallas felt a lot better when he sighted the armoury. This was a proper position to fight from, not a makeshift line in the middle of a companionway with little cover and no room to maneuver. They would hold the enemy here, he was sure, or die trying. His squad was directed into position, with the armoury officer, a lieutenant, taking over from the ensign as commander of the combined defence force. There were already men defending the armoury; it was never left unguarded, even when most of the deck's armsmen had been called away to defend the boarding sites. The turrets were online, the servitors were standing by, there were men manning the defences, facing outward in all directions. The armoury was ready and waiting for the enemy to dare and try to take it. They did not have long to wait.