++Facility 2W6379BJ, Denton III++
++3.637.879.M39++
“Acolyte,” said the tan-skinned, black-haired woman looking up at the alicorn.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Twilight, not lowering her bolt pistols or detaching from the ceiling. “You weren’t described in my mission overview.”
“I owe you no explanations,” Kylara answered impassively.
“If you want to keep breathing, Interrogator,” hissed Twilight. “You’ll tell me what you’re doing by yourself in the middle of a Necron-infested base out in the desert.”
The woman snarled. “You dare to threaten me?” She tightened her grip on the plasma pistol by her side, but did not draw.
“I dare,” the alicorn replied. “You aren’t in my mission briefing. But you’re here. And you’re alone. And you’re alive. In my book, those things are suspicious.” Her pistols clicked meaningfully. “Explanations now, Interrogator.”
“You have no right to demand explanations from me, xeno vermin.”
“Then that’s my problem,” Twilight’s expression was hard as diamonds. “But I’m sure the Lord Inquisitor will understand my judgment if I explain the extent of your suspicious behavior. This is a warzone, after all, and we cannot take chances.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Shock and outrage crossed Kylara’s face for an instant, before being replaced by narrowed eyes. The woman stared, her eyes glancing around to where Twilight knew the rest of her squad waited for orders. She sighed.
“What do you think I was doing?” she said at last. “I was here doing my duty,” Twilight’s face remained stony, and after a moment Kylara elaborated. “I was sent here to confirm the authenticity of the alleged visions of the witch Marius Quinn, and to extract any useful intelligence from him.”
“And why are you still here?” the alicorn demanded.
“I was caught in the xenos attack. I have been unable to secure exit for myself or the prisoner.”
“And why are you alone?”
“Because the last group I found myself with was destroyed by the xenos.”
“And why were you coming this way?”
“I heard the sounds of combat and thought I might find other survivors to regroup with.”
“Why weren’t you in my briefing?”
“I cannot speculate on our lord’s motives, but my suspicion is that he believed me dead, or else irrelevant to your assigned task.”
Human and alicorn stared at one another in silence for some time, neither moving at all. The men of Twilight’s squad looked on, some wondering whether it would come to a clash, others wondering who to side with if it did. But at last the alien seemed to make up her mind, and, with a sigh, reluctantly returned her bolt pistols to their holsters. Kylara in turn released her grip on her own favored weapon.
Twilight Sparkle dropped from the ceiling, landing easily on her hooves once more. “You can come with us,” she said, slowly. “But I warn you: give me one reason to think you might have mindshackle scarabs, and I’ll end you then and there. Understood?”
“I would expect nothing less,” said the Interrogator through gritted teeth.
“Do you know where Marius Quinn is currently being held?” Twilight asked. “I have his previous location, but if you were seeking others and didn’t go there it implies that either you couldn’t reach it or no one remains alive there.”
“The latter,” answered Kylara.
“Is our target dead, then?”
“I do not know.”
Twilight grimaced. “Very well.” She gestured for the others with a wing. “Let’s move!”
Another of the Emperor-damned machines fired from point-blank range just as the one in front of it went down, this shot catching the Astartes’ chainsword in a glancing blow. That was more than enough to atomize the bulk of the weapon, with the rest rapidly being eaten away by the lingering effects of xenos techno-sorcery. Brother Venris of the Deathwatch hurled the useless hilt aside with a curse. Before the Necron could fire again, the Space Marine seized the barrel of its weapon in one hands and wrenched it away, forcing the barrel to aim at the floor. Simultaneously, he took hold of the Necron’s upper right arm and pulled as hard as his genetically-enhanced muscles could manage.
With a rending sound, the monstrosity’s arm was torn from its joint. Brother Venris threw the useless, flailing metal limb aside to wrap his left hand around the Necron’s neck. With his right, he punched its skull-like face once, twice, then three times. Ceramite-encased muscle met unbelievably ancient necrodermis, and the necrodermis crumpled. With its face caved in like so much cheap aluminum, the Necron failed to resist as the Astartes hurled it to the ground and crushed its head beneath his boot.
“Xenos filth,” he snarled, for what could have been the thousandth time in those last few days.
Brother Venris turned to aid his brothers just in time to witness the now one-armed Brother Fares impale another metal abomination through the torso with his own chainsword before kicking its limp form to the floor and whirling around for more. But there were no more. The last of this group of Necrons had been sent back to whatever hell spawned them, their bodies fading away as they always did in green light.
A more superstitious man than the Imperial Fist would have taken the lull for an Emperor-granted respite, but Venris knew the relentless machines only stopped when they had all been slain – or else when they were simply preparing for the next assault.
“Brothers,” he voxed. “I am shamed. My sword has been lost.”
Brothers Fares and Atellus, the other two surviving Astartes of the original seven that had started this battle, themselves survivors of other battles that had culled their numbers from ten, bowed their heads solemnly. The loss of an honored mechanical comrade was more than just a tactical disadvantage; it was a black mark on the record of the Space Marine who had been so careless. Many of the weapons they carried had been honored relics of their Chapters or the Deathwatch for centuries or more. If they survived, Brother Venris knew that he must answer for it. But he was far from the only one so dishonored.
All of the Space Marines had been fighting for well over forty-eight hours by then, without substantial rest or resupply. Ammunition and grenades had been exhausted long ago, and guns were reduced to mere clubs – if they were not abandoned altogether or simply destroyed in combat. Brother Fares now held the one functioning weapon between the three – his chainsword – and he showed his loss in the form of a missing right arm and numerous gouges on his armor. Brother Atellus had taken to using a particularly tough section of piping for a crude bludgeoning weapon and had lost his helmet and portion of his left ear. Brother Venris now had an empty bolter and leg injury from falling debris to show for his efforts to stem the metal tide.
And yet still, in spite of the thousands of machines they had put down between them, the Necrons came on still. In large groups or small, in the form of scuttling insects or walking skeletons, in the doors or through the walls, the implacable advance had continued apace. Most everyone in the base was slain, those few mortals whom the Astartes knew yet survived cowered in a commandeered laboratory zealously guarded by the three remaining superhumans. None of them expected to escape, but all were determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible. They were sons of the Emperor, and He would expect nothing less.
It came as something of a surprise when their superhuman ears picked up the sounds of bolter fire. The distinctive crack of the gun, followed shortly by the detonation of shells, echoed throughout the dark and empty halls. It was a sound each Battle Brother knew more intimately than a lover, and as one they turned their heads towards the source.
A single thought passed between each Space Marine, communicated without the need for words: had help at last arrived?