Strange Bedfellows

by BRBrony9

Beneath The Surface

'Contact!' Spitfire roared, bringing up her gun. She couldn't give a direction of contact as everypony was facing a different direction, searching the vast chamber, nor could she use a compass point as they were deep underground with no frame of reference, and her compass would have been thrown off by the metallic deposits in the deep rocks around her. The best way of alerting them to the location of the target was to open fire, and that was what she did, joined a moment later by Arcwing. The eyes flashed and disappeared, before suddenly bursting from another hole on one of the upper floors. Not a Changeling, but something even more dangerous.

'Dragon!' Arcwing shouted. A dark red presence swept across the chamber, in the air above them. Bullets pattered off of its rock-hard scales, yellow eyes glowing, its expression changing from wariness to outright aggression. Dragons often made their home inside caves and natural caverns, but it was unusual for them to secrete themselves inside abandoned Hives, or to go so deep into an underground complex- it was possible the confusing layout of the Hive had seen it get lost, unable to find the exit.

The squad scattered, some taking to the wing and some staying on the ground as the dragon swept overhead, not happy about the intrusion into its home. With a roar, a blaze of fire erupted from its mouth, scouring the rock floor of the chamber and narrowly missing several ponies. More Machine-Rifles opened up, doing little but annoy the great beast. While it was not among the largest of its kind, having to be small enough to gain entry to the relatively narrow Changeling entrance tunnels, it was still not to be trifled with. All but the smallest dragons were a mortal threat to anything less than an infantry company or an escort airship. Some of the largest could tangle on an even keel with an entire brigade, or even a Royalty-Class. There was a reason every town in Equestria had warning sirens, and it was not because of the threat of a Griffon airship bombardment.

The confined space at least somewhat hindered the dragon's flight and negated some of its usual advantage of being able to gain altitude before swooping down, but the chamber was still large enough for it to swoop around for another pass. Spitfire emptied her magazine at the target, hard to miss something so big, but her twenty-five bullets had no effect.

'Sunflower!' she called out, looking around for the point-mare. She spotted her, wings flapping, diving off to the side to get out of the way of the creature. 'Sunflower! Can you draw its attention?' Spitfire shouted. 'We need to get up close to it!'

'Yes ma'am!' Sunflower waited for the dragon to turn. She fired at its head, hoping to strike its eyes and either wound it or, at the very least, distract its attentions from the rest of the squad. Spitfire took to the air, shouldering her weapon, leaving it dangling against her flank while she reached into her saddlebag. If the dragon could not be outfought by a mere eight ponies, then it had to be outthought, either through the use of magic or technology. Since as Pegasi the former was not available to them, they would have to rely on the latter.

Spitfire grasped the sticky bomb in her right forehoof. Consisting of a simple shaped-charge explosive encased in a frangible rectangular casing, coated in an adhesive and surrounded by an outer metal shell, all attached to a stick-handle, the sticky bomb had been developed by Equestria's military scientists for applications such as breaching a building wall to commence an assault, blowing a hole in the hull of an enemy airship to start a boarding operation, as an effective way to spike an enemy artillery piece and put it out of action. or for battling monstrous creatures such as Manticores or, more relevantly, dragons, which possessed thick skins or armoured scales.

Spitfire moved to the side of the chamber. 'White Storm!' she called, alerting the squad's demolitions expert. 'With me!' The stallion in question flapped over to her as the dragon approached.

'What's the plan, ma'am?' he questioned, sparing a brief glance as the dragon passed overhead, fire belching out, acrid, toxic smoke starting to fill the chamber.

'Sticky bombs!' she ordered. 'We'll get up close to this thing, give him a real bad hangover. Go for the eyes if you can, if not, the ears or the back of the skull.'

'With pleasure!' White Storm grinned, drawing a similar device from his saddlebag. 'Won't know what hit him!' He fell into line beside Spitfire as the dragon made another pass. Sunflower and the others peppered it with rapid-fire rounds, enraging it further, but distracting it from the threat. Spitfire's powerful wings brought her rapidly alongside the big creature, with White Storm in place on the other side of the dragon. Spitfire used her teeth to pull the pin from the bomb, which released the outer cover, exposing the adhesive layer. With the pin removed, any firm strike of the bomb's head against a surface would arm the ten-second fuse. The dragon began to turn, almost invisible in the darkness to those below, but Spitfire had a good visual on it. She closed in, right behind its head. Her hoof went out, and she smacked the bomb firmly against the back of the dragon's skull.

To the great creature, the contact was merely a tiny tap, unworthy of attention. To Spitfire's dismay, her bomb simply slid off, the smooth scales of the dragon not providing enough grip. 'Fire in the hole!' she shouted, warning those below of the danger. White Storm swung in to try his luck as her bomb exploded below, sending a jet of flame and blast shooting off at an unexpected angle, illuminating the chamber. A second bomb was stuck to the dragon, this time finding enough of a purchase between the scales of the creature's great bony crest that ran along the top of its head. White Storm pulled away out of danger, and a few seconds later the bomb detonated.

The dragon gave a mighty roar, as much of annoyance as of pain. It turned, not its body but merely its head, and let loose with a great stream of flame. White Storm's dive became almost vertical as he strove to escape not only the blast of his bomb, but now the response to his insolent activities. He escaped being grilled alive, but the chamber was not as tall as it needed to be, and despite pulling out sharply, the stallion slammed into the floor with a grunt, rolling several times and laying still.

Each squadmember had taken along two sticky bombs, though mostly in case of running into the metal armoured vehicles of the human enemy. Spitfire produced her second bomb while climbing toward the ceiling of the chamber, and gave a shout to those below. 'Keep him busy! Cover me!'

A hail of accurate bullets was her response, drawing the ire of the dragon. He turned again, bathing the ground in fire, dangerously close to White Storm's inert form. Spitfire leaped into action, wings beating a furious litany as she dove down upon the dragon. Her dive gave her enough speed to slightly overtake it, bringing her target into view. She pulled the pin with her teeth, discarding the outer cover of the bomb behind her. Her hoof reached out again. The dragon noticed her, looked at her, turned to breathe fire at her, just as the bomb connected with its left eye.

Spitfire rolled and dove hard for the floor as a column of flame nearly singed her tail. Just hold...for ten seconds, just hold...

The dragon roared, blinking vigorously. Something seemed to be stuck to its eyeball. It kept its head up, thrashing it from side to side in an attempt to dislodge the offending article, but inadvertently helping to keep it in place. It remained there for ten seconds, before a brilliant flash filled the dragon's vision, and it became instantly blind in its left eye.

Spitfire pulled out of her dive and looked up just as the boom of the exploding bomb echoed around the chamber. Dirt rained down from the roof, and the dragon swayed, just at the top of a turn. The agile beast suddenly became a lumbering mass, strong wings feebly twitching. It laboured in the air for a few moments before dropping, unable to check its descent. It smashed into the floor, raising a cloud of dust. Its left eye was now a bloody orifice, the directed explosion having cut straight through into its brain, not killing it, but rendering it utterly defenceless, barely able to breathe and keep its heart beating. Spitfire shouted an order, and Arcwing jumped over, pulled the pin from another bomb, slapped it over the new hole, and flapped away. The explosion drove shrapnel, fragments of bone, and a fast-moving shockwave directly into the dragon's brain, pulverizing it and extinguishing the final shreds of life it had been clinging to.

Spitfire hurried to White Storm's side, and was relieved to see him moving. The rest of the squad gathered round as he sat up, gingerly rubbing his head.

'Did I get him?' he asked plaintively, drawing a few chuckles from his squadmates.

'We got him,' Spitfire assured him. 'We got him.'

White Storm was monitored for concussion by the squad's medic, Patience Heart, while the rest of the ponies scoured the chamber for anything of use. It did not seem promising, until a shout went up from Arcwing.

'Ma'am! Something over here...might be important.' Spitfire trotted over to investigate. Arcwing was standing beside a lump of rock. Nothing unusual...except that this rock did not match. It was not the same granite or gneiss that made up the structure of the Hive around them, though its exact nature could not be determined from mere visual observation.

'This is it,' Spitfire nodded. 'Grab it, bag it, and let's get the buck out of here.'

The rock sample was flown back to Canterlot as fast as their wings could carry them. Analysis of the precise structure was necessary, but, it was hoped, could help determine the rough geographical area where it came from. The theory was that the Changelings had procured a sample of rock for testing, to determine if the selected location could support the construction of another Hive. Why it had been left behind at the old location was unknown- a mistake? A rushed evacuation? A deliberate trick to mislead those that might follow and seek them?

The few military scientists were able to examine the rock sample, using magic and simple tools as the microscopes of the capital's laboratories had been destroyed, smashed along with most of the other scientific equipment by the loutish Chaos occupiers. The composition suggested it came from the southern regions, most likely on the wide coastal plains that lay southeast of the Foal Mountains, though the lack of sedimentation present suggested it was not from near the ocean itself. Given that the southeast coast had been struck heavily by debris from the falling human spaceship during the opening day of the invasion, however, it might be uninhabitable- or it might provide the perfect cover for a Hive relocation. The area was sparsely inhabited at the best of times, with just some coastal fishing villages and the odd larger town further inland. But there were thousands of square miles of grass and scrubland, stony outcrops and some marshland interspersed and all but the few dozen miles atop a thick layer of bedrock perfect for Hive construction. Assuming the ground itself had not been ravaged too harshly by the meteoric explosions and chemical fires of the ship crash, it could be a reasonable guess as to the location of Chrysalis and her sadistic band. The trouble was that the vast area had been totally unsurveyed since the disaster unfolded.

Nopony knew what kind of damage may have been wrought to the plains. No reports had emerged from any of the scattered communities there.The Imperials had doubtless taken readings of the area from orbit with their equipment, but, as Celestia had pointed out, the Changelings were cold-blooded creatures and built underground, limiting the chance of any detection even with such advanced technologies. There was also the matter of the potential presence of the human enemy; nopony had any concrete reports on whether they may have troops in the region. Imperial aircraft had not been sent to investigate due to the lack of any military significance in the coastal plains themselves; there were no strategically defensible positions, no major fortresses, no industrial cities or ports or centres of government.

Princess Luna transmitted the news of the discovery and the results of the investigation to her sister via fast messenger Pegasus, not wanting the humans to get a clue to the possible location of the Hive, as its successful discovery might prompt them to simply destroy it and eliminate the threat from orbit. The destruction of the Element of Magic would cripple the whole system forever, as no new artefacts could be created. Such a loss would be huge blow to the potential future security of Equestria, and the planet as a whole. While Celestia or, potentially, Luna could wield them alone if their bearers were to die, they could do nothing with an incomplete set.

Celestia's reply ordered the immediate dispatch of the EAS Canterlot from the capital on a reconnaissance mission to the plains. It was a large area to cover and Hives were hard to find at the best of times, but, it was hoped, with the potential devastation in the area, an aerial search held a much greater chance of locating any sign of the enemy. With such a small population, and with those few residents probably ravaged by the fire that had fallen from the sky, there was a good chance that any movement the Canterlot spotted could be the Changelings.

The next morning, at the paling of the sky and the winds at a dead calm, the mighty craft slipped her moorings, the drone of her engines audible across much of the silent city. Loaded with extra fuel and ammunition, as well as a detachment of assault infantry, the Canterlot was heavy-laden, but her swiftly turning props lifted her with little trouble as she climbed rapidly, keeping the nose up and the altimeter rising. The ponderous craft needed to gain enough height to go over the mountains, as the human enemy still held the Foal Valley to the south, and so it began a lazy circuit, out across the city, looping around several times until it had attained sufficient altitude. With a blast of its air horn, it departed, passing over the wispy peaks in the soft pre-dawn light, heading for the coast, seeking an enemy who did not want to be found.

Aboard the Emperor's Judgement, Lord-Admiral Marcos gazed out of his ready room window, hands clasped behind his back in his usual fashion. The planet lay below, a jewel in space, seas glittering in the light from the system's star. The star controlled by the princess, he had to remind himself every time. As absurd as it sounded, he had seen the evidence for himself. Apparently she had been vital in repelling the latest Daemonic incursion as well. It seemed she was determined to display her power at any possible opportunity, not entirely surprising as she obviously wanted to preserve the integrity and independence of her planet. What better way to do that than to convince the Imperial forces that she could destroy them if they threatened her people?

Marcos was convinced that she could, but not that she would. She had not exterminated these Changelings they were hunting, nor had she finished off the Griffons. It seemed she had shown mercy even to her greatest foes which, he had learned from field intel reports, included her own sister, who had apparently risen up in rebellion against her some one thousand years ago. The parallels with his own Emperor were clear, though doubtless blasphemous- both psykers of immense power, both betrayed by their kin. both uniting their race under one banner against outside threats. That was where the similarities stopped, because the Emperor was not as forgiving as she was. Horus had to die for the safety of humanity, and the alien, at least in most cases, must be exterminated prudently. The princess, however, subscribed to a different philosophy. Somehow, it seemed to be working for her.

'My Lord, Navigator Pericles is calling,' a message came over the speakers for him.

'Put him through,' Marcos replied, being connected a moment later.

'Lord-Admiral,' the slightly tremulous voice of the Chief Navigator came through the system. 'I hope you can forgive me my earlier...outburst. Such a maleficent presence, I have not felt for quite some time.' The Navigator sounded like he had mostly, though not entirely, recovered from the psychic shock.

'Of course,' Marcos replied. 'Your cry was heard. The Daemons were repelled once again.'

'They were, yes, but...' Pericles hesitated. 'They have not been defeated. I still feel power in the warp, coming closer.'

'What presence, Navigator?' Marcos questioned, furrowing his brow.

'I do not know,' Pericles replied. 'I only know that it is a source of great power. I do not know when or where it will arrive, but I feel it.'

'Your warning is received,' Marcos assured him. 'We will use caution. Perhaps this thing is merely another Daemon attack in the offing?'

'I do not doubt it is, Admiral, but there is more than that. There is a single presence, one mind, greater than the rest. I feel him coming closer,' Pericles added. 'There is no doubt that he seeks our destruction.' Marcos knew that the Navigator was not given to fits of terror or to hyperbole. Something must have definitely spooked him for him to be urging such caution.

'A man? A Daemon?' Marcos questioned. 'Can you tell me anything more?'

'I am afraid not...all I can discern, I have told you. But I feel his presence, not just in the warp, but in my mind,' Pericles replied ominously. 'Soon, you will feel him in your mind, too.'

The lower decks of the Emperor's Judgement were still a hive of activity. Though it had been several weeks since the battle with the Chaos fleet in low orbit, repair work was still ongoing. Lacking the facilities of the vast shipyards at Hydraphur, some damage took much longer to fix, and some could not be repaired at all.

Shattered gun turrets could not be replaced or manufactured on board. Sensor vanes and augurs could only be recreated by the Techpriests of a major forge world. Twisted bulkheads could not be straightened. Some compartments remained open to the vacuum, despite the unceasing efforts of thousands of men. But other repairs had been completed. Power was restored to the entire ship. Plasma conduits had been rerouted around damaged sections. Wreckage had been cleared, lighting rigged, deck plates and bulkhead doors replaced. Damaged weapons were returned to service. The men did what they could, aided when possible by the Mechanists and Techpriests from the Ferrus Terra. There were other ships to fix as well, of course, but as the flagship, the [iEmperor's Judgement received priority treatment and priority supplies. There were plenty of spare parts and raw materials aboard the bulk freighters and tankers of the fleet's logistics arm; as well as carrying ammunition and fuel, they supplied sheet metal, adamantium and ceramite from the stores, which could be welded or set in place where armour had been damaged and hull plates ripped asunder.

Life aboard ship was long, hot, tiring work. Hundreds of thousands of men and women toiled laboriously to keep the fusion drives running, to man the weapons batteries, to load huge shells the size of a main battle tank into the heavy macrocannon, to perform routine maintenance, to monitor internal and external systems, to provide shipboard security, to feed and nurse their fellow crewmembers. Discipline could often be brutal, because it had to be- if one ship's department failed in its task, then the safety of the entire ship and its vast crew could be at risk. Even on board the flagship of a relatively benevolent Lord-Admiral, the man in charge of the fleet was not in charge of lower-deck discipline. Such tasks fell to the Bosuns attached to each work party, to the junior officers assigned to each compartment, and, ultimately, to the Deck Commissars, who patrolled with withering glances and a hand on either the pommel of their chainsword or the grip of their bolt pistol. As with the Imperial Guard, summary execution was a regular occurrence on less loyal ships. The flogging posts were in near constant use as punishment for even the most minor infractions. Many days there were fights, sometimes just a drunken fracas involving an accusation of cheating at a game of regicide, and sometimes a full-on mass brawl requiring the armsmen and disciplining parties to storm in with shields and batons, even guns sometimes should an armoury have been raided. The armsmen were often regarded with constant suspicion and disdain by the ratings, as much a tool of oppression as one of security against external threats. Life was hard, but so were the men, out of necessity if nothing else. They worked hard, they drank hard when off duty. All but the most hardline Commissars would turn a blind eye to coming across an illicit still or brewing operation tucked away in some utility corridor or empty storage compartment- though if a man were to be drunk on duty, that was an entirely different affair, with only one sentence permissible. Gambling, likewise, was usually overlooked, while punishing small-scale crime among the men was usually left up to mob justice. There were simple too many men and not enough officers or armsmen to deal with every trifling incident. The ship was much like a city in that respect; men formed close-knit communities, each deck and department had a friendly, or sometimes not so friendly, competitive spirit with its neighbours. Just like a city, however, the bowels of the vast craft held many dangers. Plasma leaks, high-pressure steam ruptures, damaged anti-grav plating, magazine explosions, toxic chemical spills, leaky seals, faulty machinery, crime, disease, lust and depravity. Especially on older ships, even the safety equipment could prove fatal. Smoke hoods that leaked, rebreathers that did not rebreathe, fire extinguishers that had rusted themselves closed, bulkhead doors that had the exact opposite problem. It was far from uncommon for a man to simply disappear, either through accident, suicide, foul play or desertion, not reporting for duty at the beginning of his shift and for no trace of him to ever be found aboard the gargantuan labyrinth that was an Imperial battleship, duly being recorded as 'Missing In Action.'

Senior Armsman Stennis, a veteran of service though still only twenty-one standard years of age, made his third round of the morning, or at least, what passed for morning aboard ship. The lights were dimmed slightly during the alleged night cycle, which could correspond either with Terran standard time, the time at Segmentum Command at Hydraphur, the standard time of whatever world they were orbiting, or any other seemingly random cycle depending on the whims of ship's captains. In this case, the ship's address system had informed them weeks ago upon their arrival in system that, on the orders of Lord-Admiral Marcos, all ships' chromometers would be synchronised across the fleet to correspond with the day-night cycle of the main continent of the planet they now orbited.

Which meant it was morning, which meant Stennis was on duty, which meant he had to log his uncomfortable leather combat suit and cumbersome shotgun around after a scant few hours rest atop a threadbare cot in a sweatbox of a compartment just two decks above the generators of one of the mighty starboard plasma batteries, which, though not firing, had been carrying out some kind of noisy maintenance throughout the night.

His patrol route was on deck 76-S, not of particular note other than for containing a dozen of the heavy macrocannon and one of the landing bays for supply barges. As an armsman, Stennis only left the ship for boarding duties, meaning he would never set foot on the planet they were orbiting. He had seen it from the gunports of the macrocannon galleries, and it looked remarkably like any other. But the returning supply parties had reported strange things.Talking birds almost the size of a man, horses that flew in giant airships, a psyker princess with a golden crown and a glow like an angel. Stennis wasn't sure whether to feel intrigued or worried by such reports. Of course, there was no more fertile ground in the universe for rumours and bullshit to spread than aboard the lower decks of an Imperial starship, and much of it was undoubtedly pure nonsense. Nevertheless, Stennis couldn't help but wish he could take a trip down to the surface, just once, and see for himself.

Instead, he gazed upon the unremitting grey of compartment after compartment of unburnished metal and bare wiring. No duller sight could be imagined by even the most ascetic Ecclesiarch. If a man wished to forsake all wordly pleasures and hedonistic comforts to pursue spiritual uplift, he should certainly visit deck 76-S. Emperor knows there's nothing else to do here.

One of the lighters had just returned from the surface, delivering some supplies and personnel, and returning some men of the excursion forces to the ship. Logistics men, liason officers and men enlisted for manual labour were regularly transferred between the ship and the surface. Stennis knew he would likely never be picked, as ground security was provided by the Imperial Guard, not by armsmen, whose authority only extended as far as the outer pressure bulkheads of their vessel.

Up ahead in the dimly-lit corridor he spotted Midshipman Vinson, one of the away team, leading a party of men. Evidently they had just returned from the surface. Stennis threw a salute as he approached the junior officer who, in fact, was even younger than him.

'Welcome back, sir!' the armsman greeted his superior. Vinson nodded.

'Thank you. It's good to be back on board. Such a strange place, that planet...'

'Are the rumours all true, sir?' Stennis asked.

'Oh yes. Everything you've heard about that place is real,' Vinson confirmed. 'The strange Xenos, the Archenemy...all of it. I don't suppose you'll ever get to see it, though.'

'I suppose not.' Stennis nodded as the men made their way past him. 'Still, it looks beautiful from up here...' The armsman trailed off as he noticed something unusual. He didn't recognise any of the men, except for the Midshipman and one or two ratings. Who were the rest? From other decks, perhaps? Other departments? But then why would they be aboard the lighter bringing them to this particular deck?

He glanced back at Vinson. The Midshipman had noticed his curious gaze, the eye of a trained armsman, noticing something amiss. Vinson looked straight at him.

Something grabbed Stennis from behind, around the head, and he felt a quick flash of pain across his throat, followed by something warm cascading down onto his hands, soaking his smart uniformed jacket. His shotgun clattered to the deck. As he stumbled around, Stennis saw a few of the men from the landing party being grappled, stabbed, pulled down and finished off by others among them. He had no idea what was going on, and it wouldn't matter if he did. He could do nothing about it. He fell to his knees, blood pumping from his slit throat and severed carotid artery. He managed to raise his eyes long enough to look at Midshipman Vinson. He received only a cold, steely glare in response, the last thing he saw as his vision failed him and he slumped to the deck.

Comments

[OneAmongOthers]

Seriously these imperials just feel like some punching bag, and now changelings it seems. Can they ever get a break? Time to call in the ponies to sweep and clear the decks!

[Starlight Nova]

Will this story be as long as Blue Angel?

[BRBrony9]

9777022
Having looked up the length of that story, I'd say most likely not, but you never know where the twists and turns of fate will take things!

[Animatorsnake]

Okay this is definitely Chaos

[Bronzer]

9775997
Welcome to Warhammer 40,000 where humanity's only saving grace is the sheer numbers to be the universe's punching bag and still keep trudging along.

[MARKi88]

Daaaamn, do I wanna purge the Changelings in Emperors Name with Holy Flames.

[DezzarTac]

the flagship, the [iEmperor's Judgement received priority

Having a stroke there? Helluva typo